The End of Times
by Antony444
Summary: For three hundred years, the Targaryen dynasty has reigned over the Seven Kingdoms. But now a storm is coming. Chaotic forces are on the move, ready to break the peace and remodel the world to their whims. The darkness is gathering and few heroes are ready to stand against it...
1. A Dance of Magic and Chaos

**Author's note** : I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire. If I did, the Winds of Winter would have been published a long time ago. I do not own Warhammer. It is the property of Games Workshop, praise the Gods for that.

Fair warning, this story will contain atrocities beyond counting, murders, bloody executions, sacks, betrayals and will generally reach a point where they will be no good guys left standing.

I do not know how long or how frequent the updates will be. The other stories have priority, but as I have several flashes of inspiration it may advance faster than predicted. And now let's the story begin!

 **A Dance of Magic and Chaos**

 **Waymar Royce 1  
**

According to one of the _Black Spear_ sailors, this was no storm. Of course the man knew what he was talking about; more than twenty of his fifty name days had been passed sailing from Eastwatch to Oldtown. But when the sky was near-black in the horizon and the sun hadn't set over the grey sea, a storm was the best description one could come up with.

The waves were high, too high for his taste. The waves near Gulltown, Runestone or Old Anchor were no small wavelets, but these ones...sometimes Waymar feared one was going to pass over the ship and sink it in less time it took to say it.

Next issue, the water sent on the bridge was hellishly cold. The air had already not been warm each time he left his cabin in the morning for an early collation, but here it was becoming ridiculous. At first, he had worn the furred boots, the heavy coat and the gloves. A black ensemble of clothes, not perhaps the newest trend from the Free Cities of King's Landing, but a practical and warm set nonetheless. After a few days he had had to add a new layer of clothes and furs, the one he had thought only to wear at the still distant Wall. When the man in the lookout had announced Widow's Watch at the end of a foggy morning, he had begun to wear everything furred he owned. It wasn't nearly enough for his poor skin, the wind was piercing him to the core of his bones.

The Shivering Sea was a harsh mistress, Waymar had been forced to conclude. This water expanse –the young Valemen had heard far cruder adjectives be pronounced by the sailors of the _Black Spear_ – truly deserved its name. And as the sailors took an evil pleasure to remember him, this horrible weather was actually pretty calm for the Sea they were currently navigating on. It was still summer after all.

 _Why in the Seven Hells did I choose to go by sea? We aren't at the Wall yet and I have already enough of this water and the cold!_

In his heart Royce knew the answer though. Going by land would have been undoubtedly more comfortable, with taverns and inns from Runestone to the Eyrie and from the Crossroads to Sentinel's Stand. One thing the travel would not have been however, was less dangerous.

The Brave Sons – the Faithful who still pretended Maegor's Edict was respected in King Aerys' realm – were in the thousands in the Vale and the Riverlands. Rumours spread fast to their ears across the kingdoms of the mountains and the rivers, and they had little patience for the men willing to move northwards. Except if you were a murderer or another type of criminal, there were nasty rumours of men going to take the black and instead finding an early grave. The septons and septas really didn't want anyone 'redeemable' going to grow the ranks of heretics.

 _It also explains why I am one out of two 'volunteers' for the Watch this year..._

"Land ahoy!"

Despite the new freezing wind gust, Royce felt a smile widen his lips under his racoon mask. They had entered the Bay of Seals two days ago; the land being sighted again could only mean one thing: their destination was finally in view.

"We will reach Eastwatch today?"

The Captain of the Black Spear, a man of very few words, grunted noncommittally. Since he had embarked at Gulltown, Royce had learnt a bit to interpret these grunts and groans. This one was close to a 'maybe'.

 _This is it, then. Soon there won't be any turning back_.

A little voice in the back of his head laughed at this affirmation. Had he forgotten the murderous looks his brother Robar had sent him at the last meal they shared together in Runestone ancient hall? The disappointed expressions of many knights living at a four or five days ride from Runestone? The mummery commissioned by one of these Grafton fools where the play's fool was mimicking his face?

"You'd better prepare the Pig." Informed him the second of the _Black Spear_ , who had undoubtedly proved he was far looser with his tongue than his superior. "The fastest he's off the Spear, the better for everyone."

Royce nodded morosely, gave a friendly salute to two men busy loosening some ropes and marched back to the direction of his cabin, taking great care where he put his feet. This was not the moment to lose balance, not when he was so close to leave the ship. Once before the door that was his destination, the courtesy knock did not receive any answer.

"Sam, it's me. Can I enter?"

"Go away..." Was the most intelligible grunt which came to his ears.

Waymar with a dark amusement ignored it and opened the door to reveal a very nauseating spectacle.

"By the Seven, Sam!"

Samwell Tarly, who shared the cabin with him, was busy vomiting in the bowl which had once served to bring him his food. The dour mounting from his bed and the ground was awful, and several containers were already full of horrid fluids and substances. The Tarly boy was not wearing any clothes but his bed sheets, looking like a parody of a Summer Prince. His size and the grease constituting most of his body were revealed in an obscene manner: there was enough weight there in his opinion to challenge one of the small Volantene elephants.

"You must prepare Sam. We're close to Eastwatch."

A new retch followed, and the large boy looked even more livid than usual.

When Waymar was in his friendliest mind, he fully agreed that the decision of Lord Randyll Tarly had been unfair and cruel. Samwell was a polite and cultured boy, sending him to the Wall where he would be surrounded by people of a different religion and if rumours were true disdaining weaknesses...this was no better than a death sentence. Especially when there were better and closer alternatives at hand. It was almost a tradition from King's Landing to Highgarden that when a noble Lord had a son not showing the slightest inclination for the sword, the joust or the hunt, it was better to send him to the maesters.

If the masters of the Citadel were not suitable, there was always the Faith. The Quill Bearers or the Order of the Lantern would have been perfectly happy to welcome a reader and seeker of knowledge inside their ranks. The candidate was removed from the order of succession, the Faithful gained a new recruit and everyone won in the transaction.

But no, Lord Randyll had chosen the Wall for his eldest son. And when he was annoyed or in a very irritable mood – like right now – the third son of House Royce understood the Master of Horn Hill. Samwell Tarly was fat and a coward. 'Fat' in this case meant the Reacher Heir would have been unable to walk in the narrowest corridors of his ancestral home. 'Coward' because anything more threatening than a spider would send him running in fear.

If at least the Tarly former Heir had a valuable talent or something in him worthy to be heard! But no, apparently the only thing of limited value Samwell knew was reading books. No instinct to play House politics, which could have avoided him this shameful exile. No will to take a bit of discomfort or eat less in order to show a slimmer body. Samwell Tarly had not a shadow of tenacity in his bones. His only pleasure was to eat candy and the most salivating food he could put his fat hands on. Eat, swallow, eat, sleep, read and eat. Those were the only things Samwell Tarly was considering for his life. Waymar had no doubts that if he had remained in the South, in two or three years Sam would go from his bed to the banquet room carried by a dozen of servants on a stretcher. A very large one and with servants boasting powerful arms.

"Hurry!" Angrily whispered Waymar. "We're close to Eastwatch and we must leave the cabin in a better state than what it is now!"

"Leave me alone..." Grasped the whale-sized boy.

"The crew is going to send you into the sea, you know." Declared the Valeman. "They don't like you and they want you gone. If you stay in this cabin, they will throw you in the Shivering Sea as soon as they will have left Eastwatch."

This was not a complete lie. The Black Ships' crew, of which the _Black Spear_ belonged, was not a brotherhood of very friendly sailors. Half of the time, they sailed in the great harbours of Westeros like Oldtown or King's Landing, selling diverse Northern woods like wood, amber or furs. It was a charter of Aegon the Fifth who had granted them this right fifty years ago when the number of Southern hulls willing to trade with the North became close to zero. The Faith had forbid their worshippers any trade with heretics, but the gold dragons which fell into Braavosi and Pentoshi purses had forced the Crown to adopt a far more conciliating measure.

The other half of the year, the Black Ships sailed north with their holds full of convicted thieves, rapists and murderers. Men who had sworn to take the Black, but who obviously couldn't be trusted to go join the Night's Watch on their own and thus went in chains to swear their vows. Between two hundred and two hundred and fifty were below his feet in the cells of the _Black Spear_.

It took several more outlandish threats and wheedling, but Waymar finally managed to get Samwell Tarly out of his couch. Urging the large boy to clothe warmly and packing his affairs took more time they hadn't in the first place. The traces of vomit and diverse fluids the Reacher noble had made were erased, the contents of the bowls and basin were sent directly into the sea. For the nasty odour, Waymar could do nothing but open the cabin door and let the frigid air come in. He had no doubt the crewmen in charge of making this space clean and fit for another person would curse him, but hopefully he would be far from this ship when it happened. How Samwell was going to keep his clothes however Waymar had no idea. The armour was fit for his 'impressive' body but there was no way the Night's Watch was going to tolerate the flamboyant red-green hunter embroidered on everything.

 _Not my problem by the Seven. If the Watch accept him he will certainly be a Steward, and I want to be a Ranger..._

Once they got out with their weapons and possessions, the land was now clearly in view despite the blackness of the sky. Dread cliffs and stone shores could be seen, but a gasp mounted from his throat as the reason of their travel was visible to their mortal's eyes.

It was big. It was tall. It was the Wall.

Waymar had heard it mentioned in uncountable tales and legends, but somewhat they had failed to do it justice. One of the Great Marvels of this world, it was like a God had decided to mould a mountain of ice. The seven hundred feet of the titanic construction were rising through the heavens, ridiculing by its simple presence the castle next to it...and as the _Black Spear_ closed the distance Waymar realised Eastwatch was in a similar league as Runestone.

 _How could men build something so big_?

Next to him, Samwell Tarly was almost dancing in joy at the view. Well, not dancing because his corpulence and the disgusted looks of his neighbours prevented such a ridiculous spectacle.

The moment of contemplation did not last long unfortunately –though Waymar had the feeling he would have the occasion to see the Wall and its surroundings until he was sick of it – they were entering the harbour of Eastwatch. It was a very orderly place, with eight or nine stone pontoons, small warehouses and plenty of sailors working. There were three Braavosi ships – easily recognisable thanks to their famous purple sails – and one of Essossi origin that could be either Tyroshi or Lysene. A gust of wind flew in, and Waymar breathed in relief as he noticed the cold was far less biting here. The Wall had to act like a natural shield for the black garrison, and now that he had a better view the scion of Runestone could see there was far little to no snow on this side of the Wall. The other side was another story, but even here the Night's Watch was feeling the effects of the endless Long Summer.

Ropes were launched on the docks, the Black Spear's speed became synonym with immobility and finally everything stopped. The last part of his travel had finally come to an end.

Sam and Waymar, as the only two volunteers of the Night's Watch, had the 'honour' of being the first to debark. As they made steps to descend, groans and insults made clear their future 'brothers' were treated far less gently.

Their landing on Northern soil was not greeted by a grand ceremony or a cheering crowd. The conversation of fishermen and Essossi merchants interrupted itself for a few turn of hourglasses before resuming. The men who had to be the black brothers were throwing a few glances before resuming their patrols. Progressing on the stone pier with scores of chained prisoners in tow, Waymar figured they must have seen this spectacle enough to be bored of it.

The second of the Black Spear led them to what had to be an empty training field. On the right was Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, fortress of the Night's Watch, though of course all the gazes were pointed towards the impossibly-high Wall.

One by one, the sailors forced the prisoners to form five neat lines on this large field where thousands warriors could muster with ease. Waymar could not escape a shudder at the empty gazes and the hate some of them had in their eyes. They had gaunt and tormented appearances; the saying only dead men took the Black had evidently some grain of truth in it. Many were already suffering from the cold; the clothes they wore were quite appropriate for the Mander or Blackwater villages, where the sun's wrath was properly infernal these last years. For a travel to the Wall, they were far too light and the members of the men were shivering.

This contemplation ceased when an impressive warrior equipped in a full set of plate armour arrived. Waymar was mildly impressed; he knew the most powerful Houses of the North had great forges to satisfy their best smiths, but if officers of the Watch had access to these protections then the military capabilities of the Northerners were severely underestimated.

On his chest was graved a black sign combining an orb and two irregular flames. Waymar felt his eyes widen and then trouble in unease. After mere seconds he was forced to direct his attention away, small tears falling from his eyes.

 _Fine, the septons are at least right on one thing...they have powers_.

"Welcome recruits to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea." The black brother had a powerful voice, and Waymar was surprised to hear the same hints of command his father used to make his men bend to his will. "I am Ralfor Darkshore, Black Castellan of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea."

One in ten of the former prisoners made moves like they intended to bow or throw themselves onto the ground in submission, but a loud affirmation stopped them in their tracks.

"No." The tone was sharp, able to cut the very ice of the Northern wastes. "If the Gods are willing, we will all be brothers in a moon. And brothers do not bend the knee to each other."

A majority of the former prisoners looked perturbed and shocked by this sentence. Waymar understood them very well. All their lives, the smallfolk who were in this crowd had been told to bend the knee and curb the head if someone like Lord Arryn graced them with the honour of his presence. Failure to show proper respect could lead to...their current presence in front of Eastwatch.

The imposing Master of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea turned his head towards the _Black Spear_ 's officer.

"How many of them are they?"

"Two volunteers. One hundred and ninety-one prisoners from the prisons of the Reach, the Stormlands, the Crownlands and the Vale." Contrary to his ordinary behaviour, the sailor did not bluster or tried to make his interlocutor sounds thankful. It was just a succession of hard facts. "The _Black Sword_ and the _Black Skull_ are not far behind us. They should be here before the end of the year."

"Good. Paymaster Woolsfield will have all the papers and your cargo ready for tomorrow."

The sailor saluted Castellan Darkshore, before marching out of the training area with indecent haste. Surprisingly, all the other sailors went with him. It was...surprising. While Waymar did not doubt the man before the assembled convicts was a redoubtable man – he would not have risen up to his post otherwise – taking a bit less than two hundred of them with only a handful of guards in proximity seemed a bit...overconfident.

Silence came upon the brown and grey earth, with only the northern winds providing the sound, clacking the black banners. And then without warning the Northerner opened the palm of his hand.

Impossibly, blue flames danced in the black fist.

 _Sorcery..._

This was the first thought which came to Waymar's mind. Screams of alarm and the Seven Signs of Protection being repeated by scores of men in the assembly told him most of his companions of misfortune had arrived to the same conclusion.

"Heretic!"

"Traitor!"

"Bane of the Faithful!"

"Demon!"

"Let's begin." Said the black brother in a fashion which explained how little he cared for their insults and accusations. It was like someone had magically silenced the Southerners present. Suddenly, no one was able to utter one more word. Waymar felt like his tongue had been stuck to his palate. "Everything you have been told about the Watch, about us...is a lie."

The blue flames intensified, forming a blue cloud of magic. As he was mere feet away from the smoke, Waymar began to cough first, with Sam next to him imitating shortly after.

"But in the name of Tzeentch I am going to reveal you the truth."

* * *

 **Ser Patrek Mallister 1  
**

"The Ironborn are up to something." Said Ser Jason Mallister, contemplating the defences of Seagard below the Booming Tower. "And whatever they're preparing, we are not going to like it."

"Brother, the Ironborn are always up to something." Replied Lord Jeffory Mallister, sipping a cup of red wine. By the form and the gravures on the bottle sitting on the table nearby, Patrek could deduce it had been a gift of House Rowan. "I believe it's in their nature."

"True." Conceded his father. "But you have to admit that over forty longships being rearmed and sailing away..."

"It is worrying, I agree." Replied the Master of Seagard, his gaze carrying well past the chamber in the direction of Ironman's Bay. "Especially as we have no idea where they're heading to."

Patrek and his cousin Myles exchanged amused glances. Sometimes, their fathers focusing on the Ironborn intentions to the exclusion of everything else was simply too funny. Never mind that the Ironborn hadn't dared raiding Seagard in over three hundred years and the time of the Hoares. The Greyjoys and the pirates they ruled seemed to prefer easier targets. Once upon a time, it had been the North but whatever sorcery and heresy fuelled the hearts of the Northerners had made the reavers abandon their raids on Blazewater Bay and the Stony Shore long before their births. Undefended villages of the Reach and the West had sometimes been raided since the beginning of King Aerys' long reign, but those had been answered by force of arms and the culprits were hanged when true knights fought them.

The truth was the Ironborn were weak. While the Long Summer was giving the islanders some time to support their families and go fishing, it was nothing compared the increasing strength of the Riverlands. At the first sign of rebellion, tens of thousands men would be ready to march against the Kraken and Balon Greyjoy knew it. The longships would still win on the seas for a time, but this superiority would only last the time the Royal Fleet and the other great naval powers mustered their naval forces.

No, his uncle and his father were boring when they grumbled of past grudges and future Ironborn wars. This was the era of the Long Summer, an age of prosperity and plentiful harvests. The closest Ironborn raids were on the Stepstones, the Disputed Lands and the Summer Isles, regions outside the Iron Throne's rule. And those were lone longships with hot-blooded corsairs at their head, not the dreaded Iron Fleet armada of old.

The Lord of Pyke had certainly wanted to play the admiral and enforce discipline into his rebellious sons. Something to keep an eye on, but not the impending apocalypse their elders feared each time something unexpected on these disease-ridden shores happened.

"Maybe the Kraken decided to go to the Basilisk Isles and reave like in his youth, father." Intervened Myles Mallister, the black eyes he had inherited from his Whent mother shining with mischief.

"If you really believe this my son, then I have a nice piece of land at the bottom of Ironman's Bay I'd like you to inherit." The tone of Lord Jeffory was pleasant, but his blue-grey eyes were not exactly tickling with warmth. "Balon Greyjoy has always been too ambitious for his own good and I doubt the last decade has mellowed him. The last proposition he sent to the Council at King's Landing a couple of years ago was advising His Grace to sack Tyrosh."

The Lord of Seagard frowned in consternation at the arrogance of the weakest of the Lord Paramounts 'advising' the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Patrek nodded in approval. The Ironborn were already regarded as dangerous heretics at court and thorough the mainland; these words had not given them any friends or allies.

"Anyway our spies at Pyke had no idea where the old pirate went." Concluded Patrek's father.

"Which is why I want you to go to Riverrun, brother." Affirmed Lord Jeffory. "Hoster has not answered my letters for quite a time, we must make sure reliable news and not sailors' rumours arrive to his hears.

The simple mention of Riverrun raised Patrek and the Heir of Riverrun spirits immediately.

"Can we go with him?" Grinned Myles. "We'll take Hendry and Quenton with us!"

"No." Commanded their liege lord, whose face shared none of their enthusiasm. "None of you will go south. You have other duties."

"But we're friends with Edmure!" Protested Patrek.

"And your friend the Heir of the Riverrun has been sent to the capital." Said his uncle in a tone that tolerated no discussion. "Perhaps because he must stop running around and learn his lordly duties."

The silent accusation conveyed by the grey-blue Mallister eyes was that they better should do the same thing. Both young knights winced internally. These celebrations and kisses for two fortnights at Pinkmaiden had been balm to their hearts, but everyone was giving them hell since they had come back. No one had died but the faces they were meeting after this festivities were relentlessly condemning them.

"There have been several disappearances in the new villages House Nayland's smallfolk are building close to Oldstones." Jason Mallister told his son and his nephew. "Lord Rufus Nayland believes this is the work of bandits but unfortunately he lacks the men to patrol efficiently the entire area. You will take fifty men with you and search if there is any credit to his tales."

"Father..." Groaned Myles. Internally, Patrek did the same thing. Lord Rufus Nayland was an old skeleton, jumping on his chair every time a shadow came too close from him. Nine times out of ten his 'alerts' and 'disappearances' were the fruit of his delirious imagination. The rest of the time it was the ramblings of his brainless son Ser Raymond who caused panic in the hamlets near Hag's Mire.

"Obey." Lord Jeffory Mallister did not turn his head from the great window of the Booming Tower where he observed the sea. This single word was somehow more terrifying than a litany of sermon pronounced by a septon on a holy day.

Patrek and his cousin looked at each other with resignation. Perhaps with a lot of luck there was an old bandit starving in a mud hole somewhere ready to give them a reason for this travel. It wasn't bloody likely though.

The Lord of Seagard had commanded, Myles and Patrek bowed and marched out, taking great care not to run in the first steps when they descended the great tower. One session of reprimand per day was quite enough, thank the Seven.

The preparations for this boring travel were not long to make. A quick goodbye to his mother and his young brother Quenton, confirmation they were going to hunt the 'Nayland ghosts'. A rapid promise neither Myles nor himself would bring shame to the Mallister name and they were ready to go. The horses were readied, the men mustered, the weapons were taken out of the armoury.

As they rode out of Seagard in a neat and impeccable column, Patrek and Myles could proudly swell their armoured chests. The grand banner of their House was magnificent, floating in the gentle wind. The knights and horse-mounted sworn swords coming behind them were resplendent in the violet and silver protections House Mallister could afford. Few Houses in peace time could boast having so many guards detached for a minor expedition at a moment's notice but House Mallister was among them. Seagard had many smiths and suppliers for battles and skirmishes. The proximity of the Iron Islands and the 'Small Wall', the line of seven fortresses marking the divide between the North and the South was no stranger to that.

 _Above the Rest are our House words and we will prove it again_.

In this jovial atmosphere, the disappearances imagined by Lord Nayland were far away. The sun was shining already proudly, the few white clouds not tarnishing in the least its brilliance. A calm breeze was coming from the sea, making sure the atmosphere was warm but not unbearable for the horse and men. A few children ran at good distance, throwing flowers and applauding when one cavalier waved at them. The corn fields were waves of green and gold, the fruit trees were full of tasty pears, apricots, apples and peaches.

 _The Long Summer...by the Seven may it never ends_.

For the first day they maintained a good pace. The Eagle Road was in an excellent condition, courtesy of decades of peace and hard work from labour parties. Hundreds of hours done by young and middle-aged men, because everyone knew that if the roads were a disastrous state, the merchants were going to be far more hesitant to come and discuss affairs. The high tolls of this fence-sitting weasel at the Twins were already ruinous, the men and women of Seagard could not neglect the fields west of the Green Fork!

The travel was calm and peaceful from their departure of Seagard to their night stop at a comfortable inn in the village of Stone-on-Mire. The only incident of note had been a recalcitrant cow taking a stubborn rest in the middle of the road, and everyone had put a hand moving the recalcitrant animal blocking the passage of the merchant chariots.

After a calm night, they left the inn and the Eagle Road behind them. Due to the geography of this part of the Riverlands, the road was making a curve to reach Fairmarket and the lands of House Paege. The Mallister group on the other hand, had to travel straight to the south to reach the hands of House Nayland.

It was unfortunately a far less pleasant travel from this point. The Eagle Road was linking the green fields of House Mallister to renowned Houses like Charlton, Vypren, Shawney and Deddings. Irrigated by the Blue and the Green Forks, these were fertile lands giving the smallfolk plenty of delectable food when the summer was long and the winds favourable. The only disadvantage came in autumn, when the low elevation of the fields meant they were often flooded by the nearby rivers.

The region of Hag's Mire was the exact opposite of this Seven-blessed landscape. Uneven, filled with grey stones and low valleys which became easy swamps as soon as there was a little bit of rain, the land revealing itself to the Mallister riders was not bountiful. Fortunately the last fortnight had been free of rains, but it did not mean Patrek wanted to stay here longer than his duties required. The coves were dark and tormented in appearance; a swirling wind was removing a large part of the summer warmth they had profited the day before.

The villages they saw were sparse and had few inhabitants. The faces and the bodies of the local smallfolk were looking gaunt and anxious. Myles, so prone to joke and rejoice in all occasions, was now leading his guards with an unusual grimness. It was wrong to say everyone in the cavalry column had suddenly become a ghost believer, but the region was burdening them of a presence that was really negative and nerve-wracking.

When the ruins of Oldstones appeared in the distance, it was a relief for every member of their party. Situated over a lonely hill overlooking the Blue Fork, the ruined stronghold of the ancient river kings was lonely. It was hardly surprising the son of Ser Jason reflected; after all since the Eagle Road had been built under the reign of Aegon the Dragonbane, the merchants and the voyagers had no reason to pass in the vicinity of this destroyed castle. One day, no doubt the very foundations of this place would fade into obscurity.

"Where do we begin, my lord?" Asked Ser Brynden Gull, who at two and sixty name days was one of the oldest knights in their party. The man bore a large grey beard and a broken nose, and was one of the best swordsmen in their entire group.

"By the top of the hill." Answered the Heir of Seagard. It was only logical with so few hours of sunlight left; the Seagard armsmen and knights would camp at the top of the hill and when the sun rose next morning, they would have a good view on the entire area. The search for the bandits and the missing people would have to wait the next dawn.

"Would it be not preferable to investigate this fire?" Over forty pair of eyes turned to watch the direction one of the sworn swords pointed to with his arm. Effectively, there was a bonfire lighted on the eastern slope of Oldstones' hill. It was somewhat strange, by the way. The meagre vegetation and the lack of villages nearby did not make a very good meeting place. Except outlaws, who had the time and the motive to come in this isolated place?

"Bandits?" Voiced one of the knights.

"No. Bandits aren't that careless." Replied Mat, one of the men Patrek liked to spare with. "The outlaws are lighting small fires and only when they are sure not to be noticed. Look, there are two others now."

Mat had a point. And as under their very eyes there were three big fires less than two leagues away, it was clear this was a large group they were dealing with. If this was a band of bandits, it would be one of impressive size. Most of the times these days, the outlaws were four or five-strong; small to disperse in the villages when the authorities arrived, strong enough to beat the lone sellsword guarding the average merchant.

"Let's see who these people are." Myles had spoken, which made it an order, not a suggestion.

The horses advanced at a moderate trot, and their riders formed two redoubtable columns, seizing their swords and their spears. If these were bandits, the Seagard warriors were going to ensure they would never prey on defenceless civilians.

As they approached the fires, more and more visible as the sun set over the horizon, it became clear their weapons would not be necessary. A large flag flew over the encampment, a raised hand under seven stars, the symbols were in rainbow colours on a white field. This was the emblem of the Brave Sons, the men following the Father. As a knight of Seagard, Patrek had seen them quite often patrolling and doing menial work in the seven fortresses forming the Small Wall. They pursued the enemies of the High Septon with an implacable ferocity and protected the pilgrims, though they did not have the right to carry weapons.

Somehow, Patrek had the feeling they had set foot in a far more complicated affair than a few brigands.

"Hey, it's Myles and Patrek!"

Patrek made a small moan and he noticed he wasn't the only one. This was the voice of Ser Raymond Nayland.

 _The Father tests us in more way than one_.

The remark was not made out loud, but the young man knew few who knew Raymond would have disagreed.

Coming closer to the fires, the men under Myles Mallister saw that in reality only two of the three fires were cooking the dinner of the Brave Sons. The other had been made by House Nayland men-at-arms. The Heir of House Nayland had his arms wide open to welcome them in the middle of the camp...but Patrek remarked with a growing sense of amusement that the Brave Sons were trying inauspiciously to be as far away from him as it was humanly possible.

"The Blessings of the Seven upon you, Knights of the Rivers." Said a man who had to be the leader of this party, given the assurance and the will his presence imposed. His head had been totally shaved, and he wore modest clothes marked with the symbol of his Order. His words were spoken in a heavy Reach accent, and the reason of this was explained in the next sentence. "I am Brother-Marshal Victor of the Whirlwind Commandry."

Patrek's eyebrows rose in surprise. The Whirlwind Commandry was a rather large establishment, one of the most important existing in the Reach. It was also located a few leagues south of Cider Hall. These Brave Sons were not exactly close to their homes! What were they doing in the wilderness of the Hag's Mire?

Politeness and courtesy prevented the Riverlanders from asking this very question as they dismounted and began to make preparations for the night after asking the permission of Brother-Marshal Victor to join their assembly. Not that they really needed to ask questions: Raymond Nayland was too loose with his tongue and was revealing everything.

The only issue was the information requested was somewhat lost in the speech flow...the knight of Hag's Mire was telling everything...from his childhood in this poor region, the things he had eaten the last day, how boring and stiffed-necked these Brave Sons were – many sent Raymond menacing glares at these words – and finally the reason of their presence here.

"They are searching a heretic worshipping Nurgle!" Finally blurted the loud-mouthed idiot.

"Don't pronounce this name!" Thundered Brother-Marshal Victor, who had evidently heard everything of this not-so-discreet conversation. "Names have powers and I won't jeopardy this mission because you haven't the intelligence of a goose, Ser!"

Despite Ser Raymond being the taller of the two and being armoured to boot, the Reacher Faithful towered over him like he was an ant. Each word enounced was seeing the Heir of Hag's Mire cowering on himself.

"Is it true?" Mat was harbouring a shocked expression and Patrek didn't blame him. True heretics in the Riverlands were not exactly common. There were the odd smallfolk and merchant having been in contact with something reeking of sorcery, but these cases were rapidly settled with the lash, marches of shame and months of penitence. To be accused of true heresy, you must have done something unforgivable...and there was only one sentence to remedy it.

"As the Seven are my witness, it is." Admitted the commander of the Brave Sons. "We are tracking a dangerous heretic worshipping the Great Demon of Diseases and Putrefaction."

Many Faithful and Nayland swordsmen nodded around the fire.

"With all my respect Brother-Marshal, why haven't the Riverlands Commandries been contacted?"

"They already have been." Replied the Faithful, pushing more dead wood in the closest fire. "The heretic in question is hunted by several Commandries of the Reach, the Crownlands and the Riverlands. We are merely one of many groups searching for him; this viper has evaded us for a long time."

"This demon-worshipper must be truly redoubtable to require the mustering of so many brothers." Myles sentence was half-question half-assertion.

"Not really." Told Victor, his eyes fixing with a terrible attention the flames cooking a rabbit. "But he has come into the possession of a dark tome which could provoke untold damage in the wrong hands. We have managed to capture his accomplices, who told us he intended to go northwards and demand the protection of his heretics' brethren living in the Neck swamps."

This made sense; although Patrek had an intuition Victor hadn't revealed the entire truth.

"What is the name of this cursed tome?" Demanded Myles, obviously devoured by the curiosity. A book so dangerous it was mustering hundreds of Faithful was more heard in the bards' tales than in the realms of the living.

"The Ildatch." The expression on the face of every Brave Sons in view was dark. "Pray you never have to see its horrors."

* * *

 **Lady Lyanna Stark 1  
**

King's Landing stank.

This was not an original remark when one came close to the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. The woman watching the large walls of the city created by House Targaryen from the bridge of the Braavosi carrack _Blue Adventure_ thought there were likely hundreds of persons thinking the same thing at this very moment.

Nonetheless, these thoughts did not hide the unpleasant smell. King's Landing stank.

It was not the smell of a freshly torn-apart corpse. She had killed her fair share of men and women to be where she stood today. None had smelled like this. The idiots calling themselves the Most Devout for this vapid religion known as the Faith of the Seven liked to say King's Landing still smelt better than the Nurgle-contaminated swamps of the Neck. She knew it was a lie. Twice she had been to Greywater Watch, and the dangerous green waters where House Reed ruled were not that bad compared to this infection. The Targaryen boot-lickers loved to say every grand city had its fair share of problems. The Northern Lady was not sorry to say that all the Northern cities had built functional sewers and had measures to prevent an epidemic of grey plague or bloody flux, benedictions of the Grandfather aside. King's Landing sewers had been built during the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. At the time, the capital had less than three hundred thousand inhabitants. Today, this number was said to be somewhere between three quarters of a million and eight hundred thousand. It was a rough estimate, there had been no proper census in the last decade and the Long Summer had swelled the ranks of the vermin crawling in the gutters of Fleabottom. But the sewers had not been replaced or modernised. This lack of change must have tremendously angered the Lord of Change continuously these last decades.

With this warm climate, the garbage being thrown everywhere and the use of the Blackwater for everything ranging from murder to pisser it was truly an astounding miracle King's Landing hadn't already been struck by a plague epidemic or something equally nasty. Grandfather Nurgle might have an arm or two in this miraculous luck, judging the city worthy of the gifts growing in the shadows.

Or the Lord of Life and Death was simply bidding his time, waiting for the incompetence and the corruption in these wretched souls to provoke a disaster. Nurgle was recognised as many things and patient was one of its most prized qualities.

Contemplating the red towers of Maegor's Citadel over the smokes and the disorganised blocks where thousands of humans lived their miserable existence, Lady Lyanna Stark was really tempted to throw her plans by the wayside and give the destruction commands this very night to her minions. It was tempting. Too tempting. After her heart had beaten in exaltation thirty times, she abandoned the idea. Her Lord Father would not enjoy learning she had destroyed decades of hard and meticulous preparations for her own amusement. A sliver of amusement came from the link with her bonded Onyx, the soul-sharing she had with her magnificent direwolf; it was diffused but still present despite the thousands of leagues separating each other bodies. If there was one thing all servants of the True Gods knew better than to unleash, it was the wrath of the Grey Wolf.

Lord Rickard Stark, Master of Winterfell and Universal Champion of the True Gods, was old but no intelligent warrior was imbecilic to challenge his will. The arrogant simpletons believing the contrary had their skulls adorning the pikes at the gates of Winterfell.

 _And he had enough time to train Eddard. To train my brother to be like him_.

Not that there was anything...wrong being like her father, no. It was just...Eddard had been the only one of her brothers who hadn't been choosing Khorne before the other True Gods. Brandon had dreamt so much about adding skulls to his tally that he had departed for Beyond-the-Wall as soon as it was humanly possible...and it had led him to an early grave. Benjen had chosen the role of Black Custodian for himself, standing vigil on the Wall like their House's duty demanded. Eddard had been different, sharing her love for secrets, the desire to be part of the pack and make their household happy.

 _But learning to be the Heir and mastering the disciplines of the four True Gods is taxing, we barely saw each other after he seeded his River bitch. And it's not like father did not have his own plans for my future. No matter how...enjoyable they were, we had to obey. He is the Stark_.

"My lady." Whispered a woman coming to her side on the bridge. Like Lyanna, the woman wore the unflattering clothes of a sister of the Order of the Lantern, the septons and the septas reserving their worship to the aspect of the Crone. Misguided in the extreme, these men and women were guarding the knowledge of the Faith of Seven. To say the simple truth, they were at the same time the librarians, censors and archivists of the Faith.

It went without saying their libraries had really little information on the true state of the world. Even the maesters knew what they were talking about on certain subjects, no matter how delusional they were on the topic of magic. The Order of the Lantern was an Order of ignorant pious fools, easy to corrupt and use for their own purposes. Take the two grey robes she and her companion were wearing for example. The two cows who had owned them had believed quoting a prayer of the _Book of Holy Guidance_ was going to provide them divine aid against the power she wielded! If it had not been so pathetic, it might have been downright hilarious.

"Miria." Replied the Northern priestess. "I presume everything is ready for our landing?"

Miria Rahl made a quick nod, maintaining a very conservative posture in the ugly grey robes of the Faith covering her from head to toe. Her blonde hairs in a ponytail were invisible under the heavy robes, but her icy blue eyes were showing the same calm detachment she always showed when they entered unfamiliar places.

But then she was a Morghon-Sidai and following Lyanna all these years had given her plenty of patience.

"The guards and the sailors have been bribed, the captain knows only what he needs to know and your illusions make our disguises perfect my lady."

Lyanna made a thin smile of approval before assuring herself her own unsightly clothes were showing the image of a common septa with no curves and no breasts. All things she definitely wasn't, praise Slaanesh.

"Then let's walk into the dragonet's den."

Calling King's Landing a den of dragons would have been a deep insult for the dragons. The Targaryen today were really shadows of their glorious ancestors. They had lost their flying reptiles, to begin with. They had lost their prestige. Soon they were going to lose their kingdom.

 _Soon_.

The Braavosi ship had the wind for it today and the last moments of their travel were relatively fast and swift. Nothing common with the Manderly ship which had transported them from the Northern shores to the sea city of Essos. But then the Blackwater Bay was tranquillity itself compared to the Bite, never mind the Shivering Sea.

King's Landing was now impossible to miss. The Red Keep was now attracting all the watchers' eyes, thanks to the red stone used for its construction and its elevation at the top of Aegon's Hill. To its right was the Dragonpit, abandoned and forbidden since the devastating Dance of the Dragons. Behind on the third hill was the Great Sept of Baelor, built in marble and stone of the purest white. A construction every follower of the True Gods, Northerner or Southerner, swore to cast down or desecrate at the earliest opportunity. This religion of False Gods, pompous lies, obese priests and hypocritical chivalry deserved nothing else.

Finally, the _Blue Adventure_ stopped next to a stone pier. The Braavosi Captain and his officers urged the passengers and their sailors to take their possessions and leave the ship. An understandable attitude; the docks were literally crowded with hulls coming from all over the world. Already a custom sergeant was walking in a hurried pace to claim the taxes he and his superiors extorted to the Essossi and Westerosi merchants alike.

While prudence recommended for two servants of the True Old Gods to hurry and disappear in the thousands of people shouting, crying and protesting, Miria and Lyanna did the exact opposite, sticking with a slow approach. They were supposed to be septas bloated with their self-importance after all. Moreover, waiting a bit for the sailors and the Braavosi to debark allowed her to hear the conversation of the captain and the customs sergeant.

"Two more stags per crate than the last time? But this is...robbery!" A stronger word might have been used, but there was now eight Goldcloaks behind the inspector. They were as ridiculous as ever, in their brown-earth light armour and their shiny gold cloaks.

For an unarmed merchant however, the swords to their sides were undoubtedly menacing and carried a powerful message.

"I don't fix the price." Replied the Kingslander sergeant with an expression which suggested that no matter who wrote the edicts and regulations, the large-cheeked official would always take its part and earn more money on the back of the merchants. "You want to complain? Go to Harbourmaster Baelish!"

"Why not Dennas Rollingford the King's Counter while you're at it?" Asked sarcastically the Braavosi, caressing his long beard, giving him the respectable image of the old sea wolf. "No, be reasonable..."

The Northern Lady had heard enough for the day, and a discreet sign of her fingers informed her co-conspirator they could descend the stairs and leave this uncivil conversation behind.

Not that discretion was really needed of course; the nine Goldcloaks were watching the well-developed tits of a whore on the other side when the two Northern women passed next to them. For a city boasting its vigilance against all kinds of pirates, heretics and treacheries, the City Watch of King's Landing was really underwhelming. Every time she arrived in the city, Lyanna wondered how in the name of Khorne the capital had avoided a true sack in the last three hundred years. It certainly wasn't due to their steadfastness. The Morghon-Sidai and her mistress disappeared in the thousands of smallfolk and merchants attending their businesses in the fisheries and shops of the Fishmarket.

The score of guards standing vigil at the Mud Gate were a bit more alert, she could give them this praise. They were standing proud, their weapons looked in good condition and they seemed to make a real effort to look for threats. Sadly for them, there was so many persons running and racing before them that they had not the opportunity to search a carriage out of ten.

"It's Jacelyn Bywater who is commanding the River Gate, no?" The question was rhetorical since Lyanna had learnt long ago who commanded what in King's Landing. Frequently she had nominated the persons in question after all. The benefits of having a Prince in her bed had been huge...for her.

"Yes, my lady." Confirmed Miria. "The men are calling him 'Ironhand' since he lost one hand in an expedition against the Stepstones pirates a decade ago and replaced it with a metal one."

The two Ladies were not whispering as they marched up the Muddy Way towards the Street of Sisters. The noise was properly infernal and hundreds of Kingslanders pressed from all sides, ignoring the mediocre vision of two Lantern septas discovering the largest city of the Seven Kingdoms.

"A competent man." Mused the Stark Lady. "Remind me to remove him from his post when our grand plan comes to fruition."

The Morghon-Sidai acquiesced eagerly. Over the last decades, the followers of the Old Gods inside the capital had compiled impressive lists on the Goldcloaks. When Lyanna had gained enough influence over her dear Crown Prince to decide who was going to be promoted, their followers had been ready to give the most incompetent of the City Watch a promotion they assuredly didn't deserve. Ser Boros Blount was commanding the Iron Gate as if it was his Seven-damned due. Janos Slynt, a butcher's son of all men, had his greedy paw over the Lion Gate. Ser Melwys Cressey for the King's Gate, Ser Hubard Thorne for the Dragon Gate, Ser Arryk Velaryon for the Gate of the Gods and Ser Gilbert Staunton for the Old Gate completed the derelict state of King's Landing senior commanders.

None of these men followed a True God. There was no monetary link between the Northern treasury and them. All she relied upon was their greed, ambition and complete lack of intelligence. The plans imagined by Lord Rickard Stark and accomplished by his daughter required nothing more of them...and truthfully this was for the best because Lyanna doubted these men were able to tie the laces of their shoes alone.

The two fake sisters did not walk long on the Street of Sisters once they reached its entrance, instead using the tortuous back alleys of Rhaenys' Hill where the flow of men and women was close to inexistent. The fractured dome of the Dragonpit loomed closer over their heads. The cacophony of the merchants and the rest of the human herd were reduced to mere murmurs. The architecture changed, this was neither the Fleabottom of below nor the grand mansions where the upper classes of King's Landing. No, these houses were nicely arranged but the paint of the walls and the doors had been suffering the ravages of time. The area had never quite recovered from the Great Spring Sickness, the short distance between this place and the Dragonpit had not helped the reputation of the place.

Oh, well. The loss of these superstitious Kingslanders was her gain.

Finally they were at their destination: a dead end in a minuscule street, with the door of what must have been under King Baelor the Dim-Witted a small sept. The Faithful must have gathered inside these walls on holy days where their fasting king starved and tried to interpret the visions sent by its agonising body. The former white walls were grey-black and fissured now. Several mansions and modest lodgements around had been rebuilt, but this part of the block had missed a benevolent rescuer. It was hardly an unusual scene in King's Landing, where in spite of the overcrowding a rather astonishing number of constructions were empty. Like the Dragonpit, they were waiting for newcomers who never seemed to come.

Satisfied she had found nothing to attract the attention of the Watch, Lyanna knocked six times an apparently abandoned door. The iron-forged number six rusting on the left was all the clue this was the hideout Miria and she were searching for.

The rusty look-out cracked when it opened from the inside. A whisper, so low Lyanna half-missed the secret greeting, was pronounced.

"Glory to the High Septon."

"Glory to the Faithful." The answer was spoken in a solemn tone, as was required from the circumstances.

"May the Maiden bathe your path in light."

"And may the Stranger hold back his darkness."

The noise of several locks being unlocked was heard, before finally the door was opened and the two Northerners hurried inside. The hooded figure who had just invited them in closed back the door immediately. The hard sound of the locks being bolted again resonated in the darkness. A torch was lighted on, allowing Lyanna and her Rahl protector to see the interior architecture of the small sept. It was in ruins; the marble floor was full of holes and the walls were showing fissures going from the ceilings to the ground.

They did not wait long in the entrance, just the time for Lyanna to activate a spark of her magic. In less time than it took to say it, her powers materialised in three small globes of purple light. Each flew to the eyes of the persons present and granted the three members of their group night vision. The door guardian lighted off the torch. They didn't need it anymore, and besides this had been the last sign to recognise friend from foe.

The guide marched at a hurried pace, bypassing several archways before jumping in a sizeable hole with a fluid movement. Lyanna and Miria followed, passed a half-opened wood door at the bottom before shedding their minable Faith clothes. So close to their inner sanctum, there was no point to hide anymore.

Next to them, their guide proceeded to the same removal, revealing the visage and the body of an extremely beautiful woman with black hair and purple eyes.

"Ashara."

The Dornish lady bent on her knees without any other word, kissing the ring on her right hand.

"High Priestess." The satisfaction in Ashara's voice gave her superior tremendous pleasure. "We were eagerly awaiting your return."

"I'm pleased to hear it." Lyanna watched with non-hidden fondness the extremely expensive and indecent dark blue dress Ashara Dayne was wearing before returning to the business bringing her here. "Have there been any complications since I left?"

"No, High Priestess." The lady of Starfall sent an eager look to the cleavage shown by Lyanna's dark leather travel clothes. For a servant of the True Gods in the North, these were mostly conservative. For someone in the South worshipping the false deities of the Seven, this was a whorish accoutrement. Not that the opinion of the latter would matter for much longer. "The Cult has been gathered as per your orders."

"Excellent." While they were speaking, Miria marched in her dark crimson leather uniform to an apparent void part of the walls and pushed a series of three cornerstones. In a loud groan, a new secret passage was revealed. "Then let's not made our Faithful wait."

Her use of the disparaging word made the two other women smile at the dark irony. Two narrow dark stone-carved series of stairs were descended before they entered a vast underground cavern. Once upon a time, this had been a secret place built by Maegor the Cruel architects. The bloodthirsty Targaryen had wanted a place where he could lead the resistance against an invader having taken the city and the Red Keep. Weapons had been stockpiled in secret; servants had been bought and afterwards assassinated to preserve the secret. When Maegor was slain with his Blood Guard in his own throne room by the enraged rebels of Jaehaerys I, the underground maze had been forgotten during decades. Under the reign of Baelor the Fool however, Northern agents had rediscovered the place and the multitude of secret passages leading to them. The spears and swords found had been moved and used advisedly. The gold had purchased the allegiance and the mouths of many Kingslanders. The parchments of incriminating information had been used to blackmail the recalcitrant descendants of various families. While the septons brayed over their heads for the salute of the Faithful souls, the Old Gods worshippers were converting guards and merchants to their cause. The decoration had changed with messengers of the True Gods replacing the dragons, purple and pink drapes supplanting the dusty red and black colours. The stage was set for the cache to become a secret holy place for the veneration of the Goddess of Love, Lust and Pleasure; one of several existing south of the Neck.

There had been small conversations going on in the crowd waiting for the main ceremony to begin, but seeing her arrival the participants all stopped their small talk to prostrate themselves. Over a hundred and eighty individuals of every social origin and wealth were reaffirming their allegiance. To her, to House Stark and to Slaanesh.

The High Priestess advanced until she was two feet away from the small altar representing a miniature sculpture of an endowed daemonette with slender wings and a barbed tail. For a few turn of hourglasses she contemplated her violet-robed servants, with Ashara to her right and Miria to her left.

Together, these men and women represented the core of the Cult of Temptations; the most powerful cell of True Gods followers in King's Landing. There were others of course, but to her best knowledge they were neither as influential nor that well-organised. Not everyone was there; many had meetings and activities to attend in the persona they projected in public. Furthermore, for every person who was aware of this room, four or five Kingslanders were unwittingly working for their cause in the capital.

Together, these members had created secondary cells in the different kingdoms they were born into. Ashara, to name the most successful example, had established and converted several hundreds of her own Dornish smallfolk and merchants around Starfall. Hundreds, no, thousands more were dispersed all over Westeros. The few heretics the Brave Sons were pursuing from Oldtown to Gulltown were in reality mere distractions, the torches attracting the gazes when the rest of the true servants were working in the shadows.

Together, they were but one minor part of the grand scheme the Old Gods had put in motion.

Together they were a dagger ready to cleave the head of the Seven Kingdoms in one strike.

"The time for our revenge draws near." Declared Lyanna Stark. "Long shall be the suffering of our enemies. Joyous will be their pain."

The cultists' answer was not long in coming.

"PRAISE SLAANESH!"

* * *

 **Tyrion Lannister 1  
**

"Hear me roar." He mumbled.

There was no answer when he raised his head from the book upon which he had taken a nap. Not that he had expected one of course. The room had been silent when he had entered and would undoubtedly stay that way once he left. This library on the fifth upper level of the Rock was generally welcoming the rats, the rat-catchers and their cats for sole living presence. Removing the drool on his lips, Tyrion Lannister lighted another candle before the one which had burnt during his rest finally gave out.

For such a boring book, _Great Treatises of Jaehaerys the Conciliator_ had a surprisingly comfortable cover. Now if only he could remember why he had spent two candles of time in searching it, it would be a great satisfaction. Sleeping after so many cups of wine was not good for his memory. It was like a dozen axes had been used to batter his miniscule head in submission.

After one-tenth of candle being consumed, the youngest son of Lord Tywin Lannister finally remembered why this work on the ancient Targaryen King had interested him.

Leafing through the hundreds of pages-long tome, the most unpopular dwarf of Casterly Rock – not that the competition was that disputed – found the page he had searched for the better part of the last fortnight.

 _The Treaty of the Northern Frontier_

There wasn't as much as Tyrion had expected – a mere five pages – but it explained nicely what the Conciliator had done. The maester having written the book took time to recall the facts: House Umber had been among the most loyal supporters of Maegor the Cruel, filling the ranks of his Blood Guard with their fierce and bloodthirsty warriors. The massacre of the tyrant and his Northern guards in the throne room had seriously harmed whatever loyalty Last Hearth and several of their bannersmen had for the Iron throne.

Learning of these rebellion murmurs, the Good King and his Queen had wanted to kill an insurrection before it enflamed half of the North. The reign of the weak Aenys I had left very bitter feelings from the Bay of Ice to the Bite and Jaehaerys had wanted to prevent another conflict after disbanding the Faith Militant. House Umber had been 'demanded' to cede half of their northernmost holdings to the Night's Watch. The answer to this 'suggestion' had been...not really a model of politeness. Jaehaerys I had demanded House Stark to convince their unruly vassals, only for Lord Ellard Stark, Master of Winterfell, to side with the Umbers.

A compromise had been broken in the end, but it must have cost the Conciliator a fair amount of his political influence and matters would never be the same again between the North and the Iron Throne. House Umber ceded said holdings to the newly created House Blackfang, whose keep would be named Blackstone. The first members of this House would be a Karstark second son and an Umber girl. Reading between the lines, it was clear the power and the might represented by the dragons had been used more than once to arrive to this outcome.

Else Lord Mors Umber would not have sworn his House's eternal allegiance to the Demon of War, Battle, Justice, Blood and Wrath. A bloody raid against the wildling tribes would not have been launched in the aftermath too. Nice manner to get rid of the dissenters, his father would have surely approved.

A shiver of excitation coursed Tyrion's dwarf body. This was the evidence he had been looking for. The first time a Northern House had embraced the resurging cult of the demons pretending to be Gods.

A quick glance at the first page of the treaty gave him the date: 80 years after the Conquest. About two hundred and twenty years ago before the moment he was reading this page with his miscoloured eyes.

 _Why did Jaehaerys not act to prevent this heresy_?

It was not an entirely unfair question in Tyrion's humble opinion. The worship of the four abominations the Northern heretics dared considering Gods had not yet spread over the entire North. The cults had started to appear during the last years of Torrhen Stark, the King-Who-Knelt. The numerous volumes Tyrion had read in the past years confirmed it.

There had been no open cult worshipping the perverse demons of Lust, Disease, Blood and Forbidden Knowledge before Lord Paramount Torrhen Stark crushed the short-lived rebellion of House Bolton and raised House Rahl to replace them. There had been no blasphemous sign when the Northern armies saw their sovereign bend the knee to the dragons in front of the Red Fork.

 _No obvious signs the knights saw. Who am I to criticize these men when I went into marriage with a heretic_?

Tyrion sighed and seized the bottle waiting for him on the dark table...only to groan when he realised it was empty. A very thorough examination of the other bottles and the golden cups waiting next to it provided the same result.

 _By the Father Above, I must have been quite thirsty_.

Returning to his investigation work, it was possible he had come close to the reasons the Northerners had fallen into heresy...and it was quite possible this was nothing but a falsehood too.

The Faith has its own theory to explain things and it started well further in the past, several thousand years ago give it or take. Theon 'the Wolf of Slaughter' Stark had been the first Arch-Heretic according to the septons and the septas, the seventh-damned warlord who had razed the blessed lands of Andalos and cursed them to know no prosperity as long as a single believer in their heretic worship breathed. Of course Tyrion had heard as many versions from these events as the number of septs in Lannisport...and they were a lot of them in the greatest city of the West.

One thing was sure: many crusades had been waged against the North. None had returned in triumph. The waters of the Neck had buried uncountable armies of the Faith Militant, and the rest had crossed the swamps only to break against the demonic-tainted walls of Moat Cailin. The few eastern outposts of Northern land conquered in amphibious assaults at an atrocious price in blood and resources were frequently abandoned after a moon or two when the direwolf standard appeared on the horizon. According to the rumours spread by the Reachers, this was one of these operations which had allowed the Manderlys to turn their cloaks. That the Morrigen and Swann records were telling a different tale where the Peake warships had abandoned their supposed allies to the tender mercies of the heretics was of little importance. Or was the version of House Corbray true, affirming that White Harbour had turned traitor in the middle of a holy battle, allowing the Northern heretics to turn the tide and repulse the Southern crusade from the North? Tyrion wasn't sure and apart from the main parties concerned – the mermaid and the direwolf - it was likely no one remembered the real history.

The Imp –and yes he was well-aware everyone calling him by that name behind his back – passed a hand on his forehead, feeling a headache coming back. He really needed something to drink.

"Pod?" Tyrion called a first time, then shouted when there was no answer. "Pod!"

The great oak door opened in a volley and his squire rushed in the room like a band of demons was in pursuit.

"Pod! Be care-"

The dwarf had not the time to finish his warning. Before Tyrion was able to remind the young boy of the treacherous stone step, Podrick stumbled his right foot against it and fell upon the hard ground of the library.

Tyrion sighed. The clumsiness of his squire had been somewhat entertaining at first when his Lord Father had presented the young boy to him, but it was becoming more and more a source of consternation these days. Tyrion himself had more coordination in his short legs and arms than the poor Podrick 'Pod' Payne...and unfortunately his squire wasn't exactly shining in the wits section to compensate this.

"Ouch! Sorry, my lord." Said the skinny squire with straight hair. The fourteen name days child stood up, with difficulty, massaging his arms, legs and back. After that he tried to correct his appearance...with a certain lack of success. There was no blood on his white-violet tunic this time, but the dust and the dirt on the floor did not give his clothes a lordly appearance.

"Try to be more prudent next time." The second son of Lady Joanna Lannister grumbled. And there would be a next time; he was sadly ready to bet half of the gold owned by House Lannister on it.

"Yes, my lord." The vigorous nods made by Podrick were kind of dog-like, desperately eager to please. Inwardly, Tyrion cringed though the Lannister tried to show a calm facade outside. Even after two years of squiring, he had not managed to discover the full extent of the discipline Pod had been subjected during his childhood. Born of the third branch of House Payne, Podrick had been the eldest son of a knight known for his extreme aversion to sin and everything going against the tenets of the Faith. As the years passed, his father had grown more and more unsatisfied with his secular life, and finally renounced his title in 294AC to join the ranks of the Brave Sons. His mother, a chandler's daughter, had abandoned him on the spot to remarry with one of his father's youth friends. Ser Cedric Payne, the only close relative to care a moment or two about his fate, delivered him to the custody of Tyrion's uncle Kevan. Two years later after having been the target of nearly all the Casterly Rock squires and young trainees, Kevan had mercifully abandoned the idea of making Pod a true warrior and put him in service of Tyrion.

The Imp had thus added to his titles of Master of Cisterns and Drains, Whore-Master, Grand Keeper of the Libraries, Rat-Catcher-in-Chief and Dwarf-in-the-Tavern the proud duty of making Podrick 'Pod' Payne an acceptable squire. According to the not-so-discreet tongues in the Rock banquets, it was a task he failed utterly. Not that Tyrion really cared about their opinion, of course.

"Go search another bottle or two for me." He commanded in a slow and clear tone in order for his squire not to misunderstand his orders. "Then go to the maesters and ask them if they have the books I wanted."

"The bottles and the books, yes my lord." Answered the fourteen name days squire before leaving the room in a hurry and downing the stairs with a speed his feeble legs would be unable to follow. Hopefully, Pod wouldn't stumble and hurt himself more than the last dozen times. Hopefully.

Exhaling a loud breath of resignation, Tyrion started to put back the books on the shelves and the alcoves where they had been waiting patiently for decades. The Rock was full of archives, books and treatises of some kinds concerning the Westerlands governance and other interesting topics, so many in fact that the few Lannisters aware of the true extent of its archives were often joking there was more parchment in Casterly Rock than gold.

The mismatched-eyed son of the Lions found this point had often a kernel of truth. There were so many rooms in Casterly Rock occupied by books few of his family bothered to read that their maintenance was becoming a real issue. These days the most formidable fortress of the Westerlands had dungeons, barracks, gardens, stables, stairways, courtyards, balconies, a full harbour named the _Lion's Mouth_ and plenty of other things like granaries and the like. Plus the gold mines. Never forget the gold mines.

A small-sized army of servants, men-at-arms and artisans were needed to keep everything in order inside the impregnable Lannister citadel, and force was to admit they weren't enough. For every room which was renovated and every balcony polished, there were two or three falling into disrepair. Tyrion had seen the numbers, made the calculus, asked the good questions. The sad truth was that Casterly Rock was an endless hole devouring fortunes like the participants of a princely dinner ate a pig.

 _Why do I even care? This will never be mine anyway_.

His Lord Father had never summoned him to his quarters at the top of the Rock by the new hydraulic elevator to announce him the news, of course. But judging how Lord Tywin had never stopped pestering the Small Council and his King about releasing Jaime from the Kingsguard...

A new sigh came to his lips. A decade ago, the naive and feeble dwarf he was had taken these refusals like the holy sign he would be the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands one day. Now? He had not much hope left in his dwarf bones.

Cersei had married the Prince of Summerhall eight years ago. Their marriage to the present day had already produced one son and one daughter. Should any boy come out again of his sister's spiteful womb after Daeron and Viserra, there was little doubt this child would be the new Master of the Rock.

Absent this birth, Tyrion's genitor could always decide to fall back on his uncle Kevan's children. Lancel was not very bright, but there was nothing wrong with Martyn and Willem. One could take Tarbeck Hall, no Lion Hall, and the cadet would have the grand prize. It was not like his Lord Father was not able to change the laws for his own purposes.

Either way, Tyrion would never sit at the head of the table in the Hall of Lions – though he would have needed a lot of pillows to be seen from afar in this unlikely case. What really bothered him were not the related issues of his Lord Father hating him for the death of his Lady Mother and barring him from the succession of the Rock. It was the point that except Jaime and his uncles, everyone had followed their liege lord in this distaste. Granted the doctrine of the Faith being not the most tolerant religion towards crippled things had certainly not helped this course of events.

Groaning under the weight of the books, the most avid reader of House Lannister put back at its place _The Weasel and the Plague: a History of the Frey-Reed Feud_ by Archmaester Garizon.

 _Imbeciles_.

Yes, his father and the Faith were very much arrogant twats. The first was always perorating on what a disappointment he was, before sending him draining the shit out of the Rock's sewers, buying several aggressive cats to catch the rats or another noble duty. And when it was done in an exemplary fashion, did he get any congratulations or cheers? No, that would be too much to ask.

As for the Faith, they were expecting to welcome their seventh injunctions when their sermons all emphasized the pressing need to hurl stones at the born-crippled, the deformed, the heretics and the mutants – when they did not preach for their murder pure and simple.

 _Like they did with Tysha_.

The last book put back to its place, Tyrion fell again upon his hard chair. By the Stranger, he should really avoid thinking about his dead wife. These dark thoughts served nothing and he always had nightmares when he finally managed to find the way back to his bed. The smell of burning flesh and the screams of agony were pursuing him to the darkest pits of his mind.

The noise of footsteps was hard anew and for one moment Tyrion caressed the hope it was one of his dear cousins wishing to pass a moment with him. As the door opened, the figure it revealed was far more amusing and predictable: Podrick Payne huffing like an exhausted animal, two wine bottles in his right hand and a pile of books in the other.

"My lord."

"The bottle and the books weren't that urgent, Pod." Said gently his dwarf master, moving around the table and helping his squire off-loading the bottles before something was destroyed. To find everything he had demanded in such a short amount of time, the young boy must have run all the way and back.

"Ah?"

Tyrion Lannister chuckled; assuredly Podrick Payne would never be a great duellist with words. Not that it mattered much when his prospects were little better than his in the West.

"Take a wine cup, Pod. You look like you need it."

The first bottle had just been uncorked that the last child of Lady Joanna Lannister realised the mistake.

"Pod, these bottles aren't wine."

"Ah?" No, Pod would never be great with replies.

"That my dear squire is prune liquor." Affirmed Tyrion, serving a large glassful to his squire before filling his own cup. "Put in bottle near Ashford in the year 190 after the Conquest. Powerful and delicious with a rehearsed fruit flavour."

The abandoned scion of House Payne tried to drink the cup in one go...and mere seconds later finished on the decades-old carpet, the alcohol having proven too much for him.

"This boy lacks experience with liquor." Remarked the sole-and-only dwarf of Casterly Rock. "Fortunately I am here to remedy to this dreadful weakness."

His cup empty and his thirst momentarily calmed, Tyrion turned his mismatched eyes in direction of the books brought by his snoring accomplice. Given that his order for more wine bottles had been completely mishandled, there was little chance the books he wanted were the ones Podrick had brought. And as he looked as the books' covers, his fears were fully justified.

 _The Shameful life of Aegon the Depraved_

 _History of the Tyroshi Archons_

 _Dark Omens: the Great Struggle against the Blackfyre Usurpers_

 _The Book of Malal_

"What is a 'Malal' anyway?" Wondered Tyrion, grabbing the cover of said book and opening the heavy tome to the first page.

* * *

 **Ser Gerion Lannister 1  
**

"There is a proverb in Volantis the inhabitants say it goes back to the foundations of the Freehold."

The rat which was his only company fled at the sound of his voice, leaving him alone in his cell. That he missed the little animal showed how desperate he was for some company.

"History is written by the winners."

A series of coughs hurt his throat. How long had it been since he had a proper conversation?

"Quite likely then no one will hear mine."

His eyes fixed the minuscule hole in the massive door's interstice. His only source of light, so close and yet so distant.

"I am Ser Gerion Lannister, son of Lord Tytos Lannister and Lady Jeyne Marbrand. I have three brothers and one sister. Their names are Tywin, Kevan, Tygett and Genna."

Something dolorous came back to the front of his mind.

"No." The dirty prisoner amended. "I had three brothers. Tygett died several years before my departure...and Tywin was never a sibling in the way it counted, doesn't he?"

The humid walls covered in liana and all sort of jungle vegetation stayed silent.

"Where should I begin?" Wondered the lone knight to himself, before coughing again. "I suppose it all started when I fell in love with Briony."

These souvenirs he had not forgotten, in spite of the numerous years having since passed. How many times they had danced during the festivities of the Father's Day in the streets of Lannisport. Their first kisses, hesitant and inexperienced, and yet so sweet.

"Briony gave me Joy." His little daughter, so tiny and adorable with her blonde curls and her green-blue eyes, the pearl of his existence. It made the next words harder to pronounce. "And Tywin took Briony from me."

The Lord and Master of Casterly Rock had not been overjoyed or generous in smiles when he had learnt his youngest brother was in love. Then again he was speaking of a rock disguising himself as a man. Tywin had not smiled since Joanna's death and everyone who had the temerity to rise against him was paying it in blood and gold. You just had to ask the Reynes and the Tarbecks if you wanted more explanations.

"I wanted to be happy and be a good father." Gerion declared to the part of his cell remaining in complete darkness. "Is that a crime?"

For his brother, it clearly was. Tywin had summoned him in front of his hard and mighty throne, and delivered him an ultimatum: go in search of the long-lost Valyrian sword Brightroar or see his love and his daughter suffer unfortunate and tragic accidents.

There would be no marriage to celebrate his union with Briony. There would be no legitimacy for Joyce's birth, his darling daughter condemned for the rest of her life to carry the infamous 'Hill' name. The beating several 'bandits' had given her several days before this summon had been no coincidence...and Gerion had lost whatever respect he had for his brother that day.

If the Lannister knight had not been surrounded by scores of household guards sworn to his brother, it was entirely possible there would have been a kinslaying before the sun set over the ancestral Lannister home. Briony had been terrified to her very bones and unable to protect herself should the dogs of his brother come back while he was away...and unfortunately Gerion couldn't blame her. Tywin had scared him badly too. After a few days Briony had chosen to take a refuge in a sept owned by the Compassionate Sisters, the minor order of the Faith whose members were dedicating themselves to the worship of the Mother. Joy had been confided to the gentle custody of House Falwell, whose members Gerion had been in very good terms with – the two eldest sons had accompanied him to the Free Cities for his coming of age tour.

"I had no choice. No one save the King of the Seven Kingdoms can order Tywin Lannister around." Would the Master of Casterly Rock have made him go missing with a few unsavoury sellswords recruited for the occasion? In his foggy mind, Gerion could not honestly answer by the negative. "I sailed for Valyria with an old carrack I named the _Laughing Lion_. Joy was four when I saw her for the last time."

Tears came to his eyes. Leaving Joy behind had been the hardest thing he ever had to do in his life.

"In the harbours from Lannisport to Volantis, they will tell you the travel was cursed from the beginning. We had two days out of three facing contrary winds, an encounter with a kraken we survived by a miracle of the Seven, good provisions which soured too fast to be a normal thing...half of my men deserted at Sunspear and the rest did it at Lys or Volantis."

A raspy laugh came to his throat; it was a far different one from the joyous barks he had entertained his Western friends long ago.

"I can't say I blame them." The Lannister man affirmed in whisper. When one ended imprisoned in a Sothoryan temple after eight years of journey which made a full-blown war tame by comparison, the right to cast insults and question the cowardice of someone was lost.

A new series of coughs interrupted him for a long moment before he was able to speak again.

"I can't say I blame them but their desertion made the final travel to the Smoking Sea a nightmarish endeavour. I was forced to recruit the craziest and maddest sailors available. I was forced to buy...slaves."

The simple name disgusted his lips, giving him an envy to retch and spit on the ground. Not that he did it, what little water he was given could not be wasted in such a trivial manner.

Where was he again? Ah, yes. Slaves. One of the rare things each of the nine kingdoms from the Wall to Sunspear agreed upon was the slavery ban. It was perhaps the only thing the worshippers of the New and Old Gods had in common, though its enforcement varied enormously. In most cases, the application was depending on the liege lord of the lands.

Gerion had obviously sullied his honour in the Volantene human markets. There was no way to dance around it, sadly. He wanted a crew, and no one sane and sober was foolhardy to sail straight into the Smoking Sea. Buying one was the last option left to him.

And what a crew he had recruited. His second was a drunk having unparalleled navigation skills for one turn of hourglass per day. His quartermaster had a fondness for the various exotic spices of Qarth, and passed the majority of his time dreaming of pink elephants. The coxswain believed a gigantic sea snake was determined to kill him and passed the majority of his days convincing the rest of the crew it was the truth. The cabin boy was a young slave who believed the greatest honour Gerion could give him was to invite him on the couch; fortunately Gerion had never swung that way. The watch keeping officer was deathly afraid of all animals, a fact everyone had discovered when birds had used the _Laughing Lion_ masts to rest. The third mate...no, better to stop here. Let's it suffice that the slaves he had bought to replace the deserters were far better at their tasks than the men pretending to be his officers.

"We sailed to the Smoking Sea and the ruins of Valyria. The weather was calm and clear. There was no contrary winds anymore." Gerion paused before admitting in a low murmur. "I should have known it was too good to be true."

A crack sounded, the hirsute knight almost jumped before he realised it was the wood board he was sitting on which had cracked.

"When the land came in view we saw it...the Eye of Woe."

The Volantenes and Essossi composing his crew had had other names for it of course. The Curse of the Dragonlords, the Wound of Darkness, the Clouds of the End, the Nightmares made Flesh were four of the most repeated names. Dark clouds staying against all common sense over the Valyrian peninsula, distorting what was true and what wasn't. Darkness and flames united for all eternity to birth a sombre power. Something monstrous which should never exists as long as the Light of the Seven shone on this world.

Gerion had panicked. The rest of the crew had panicked. Everyone had felt a fear so deep and so powerful there was truly no word to describe it. There had been no command, no order but the ninety-plus souls aboard the Laughing Lion had tried to steer it of course and abandon their journey towards the cursed land of the dragonlords.

The black vortex had not been keen on letting his prey escape the maleficent trap. Violet and unreal gales had suddenly stricken his poor carrack, halting all efforts to change the course. One sailor had tried to jump off the ship. He had been torn apart by gigantic sharks in an instant. The currents, the winds, the air...everything had turned against them inexplicably. Gerion had shouted prayers of the _Book of the Warrior_ and he had not been the only one to implore divine aid.

At first the men embarked in this disastrous travel thought the miracle they had called from their mouths had happened. Missing the treacherous shoals and the cliffs by the narrowest margins, the crewmen managed to place the hull in a seemingly calm bay.

"We should have tried to escape as soon as humanly possible...this unnatural darkness was impregnating everything. But our carrack was too damaged to make the return travel possible. We needed wood. We needed drinkable water. And so we went ashore and our fate was sealed."

The youngest son of Tytos Lannister shivered despite the thousands of leagues separating him from this cursed place. He did not remember what he had expected when he had set the first foot on the ravaged territories of the Lands of Always Summer. Uncountable demonic armies waiting to slaughter the first daring adventurer? Antique ruins full of priceless gems, Valyrian heirlooms, dragon bones and weapons of an unequalled sharpness? Lusty demonesses proposing an orgy or two to lure them into damnation?

There had been none of these things to greet them when they landed on the homeland of one of the greatest empires to have governed the world. Nothing, not an animal's cry, not a bird's thrill...nothing. Just an ill-omened silence, pressing on the nerves and the tempers of the men.

After a while, they had just laughed of their worries and begun their searches. The _Laughing Lion_ was not going to repair itself, and since they had arrived on Valyria in one piece, nothing stopped them from searching for the remains of King Tommen Lannister lost expedition.

"We marched inwards. As soon as we left the beach we saw a white-marbled temple on a promontory which did not look in a bad state."

A loud sigh escaped his dry lips.

"It was a temple of Balerion, the Valyrian God of Wrath, Battle and Destruction. I think."

His education on the Seven had been long and mortally boring during his childhood years at Casterly Rock, but he couldn't say his knowledge of foreign divinities was that great. Gerion knew like every child of the Westerlands the name of the four Great Demons the Northerners worshipped; as well as the methods to recognise and denounce these vile heretics. But apart from that...Essos had too many gods to bother remembering them. The Dothraki, these horse-mounted barbarians, had a Horse God, there was a Sea God for Braavos plus hundreds of others...

"Oh, fine. The quartermaster told me it was a temple of Balerion and I believed him."

Not that it had made any differences in the end. They had not posed a foot on the immaculate white stairs that one of the slaves had fallen to his knees and began to scream obscenities. Gerion's knowledge of the Yunkish dialect was not great, but his other companions of misfortune had been unable to understand much of his ramblings except two words.

Ereth Khial.

The poor Yunkai slave had managed to stand up, his features had relaxed and less than one turn of hourglass later he didn't remember anything.

"We should have turned back then. But we were mere feet away from a Valyrian temple! Who knew what sort of treasures awaited us inside?"

The temperatures had gotten colder, enough for the half-naked slaves and freedmen at his service to put one or two clothes on their backs. More proof than something terribly unnatural had happened on these lands but they had entered the white construction.

For a temple, it had been great and nicely built, the Lannister knight admitted. He had been in far greater septs during his life, but this one was well proportioned. The pillars were impressive, the archways had been sculpted with taste and the colours were bright even after three centuries of neglect. If only there hadn't been these bloody dragons everywhere, this place might have been an acceptable sept to pray the Father Above.

"And on the altar...there were a Valyrian sword and a dragon egg. Guess what one of the slaves tried to do."

It was hard to blame his cabin boy for his thoughtless act. Centuries before, the Old Blood of Valyria had voted a law that no person of impure blood was authorised to touch a dragon egg, never mind handle or own one. The boy must have believed it was the chance of a lifetime.

It had been the last mistake of his life. Emerging from the ground, a sort of spectre had appeared and cut him in two neat parts with a sword made of shadows and frost. The egg had rolled to the quartermaster's feet. The sword –and the arm holding it – had collapsed before him.

"We took them and we ran for our lives."

Two slaves had been massacred in the temple before they descended the marble stairs of the entrance. One more had fallen too much behind as they descended the slopes and lost its legs. The arms. The head. Yes, this had been a demon by the Seven. Only a demon would laugh while doing... _that_ to a human being.

"At least we thought it was laughter. For us, it sounded like shrieks and agony screams."

His group had never stopped running but they had not been out of danger. More and more spectres were gathering on their flanks, screaming and forcing them to put their hands on their ears least the noise became too unbearable.

The sky had become even darker, the temperatures had fallen and the first snowflakes had dropped. That it was impossible in a Land known for its hellishly hot seasons did not perturb the demons. Their shrieks had gained in power. The blue sorcery animating them had become more vivid. Shadows and ice were their weapons, fear and despair were their shields. At no moment the seven and ten men left had the idea to turn around and smite one isolated spectre with their weapon.

No, all they had done had been running. They had taken the boats, abandoned what little wood had been found, and sailed away on the _Laughing Lion_.

"It was at that very moment we heard It in our heads. The Demon which commanded all these monsters."

A rumble sounded in the distance. Certainly drums played by the Sothoryans cannibals, nothing to worry about for the present. It was when they ceased the bad news commenced. Because they announced the beginning of their ignoble feasts...

"Yes, we heard the Demon leading the spectres. It promised us...everything. The world was us to the taking, as long as we came back ashore and agreed to become its servants in this world."

The visions had been incredibly powerful and tempting. Gerion had seen himself cutting down his brother and all who had opposed him. Over a mountain of gold he had wedded Briony and legitimated Joys as his daughter. He saw himself leading the armies of the Rock to war and putting an end to the feeble Targaryen dynasty. He had seen himself become immortal and invincible...he had seen himself...become a monster.

At the price of an effort he didn't think he had in him, Gerion had abandoned the visions and regained control of his wits. The captain of the Laughing Lion had been among the lucky ones. Over two scores of slaves and their overseers alike had succumbed to the power promised by the monsters. They had swum back ashore, only to be cut down by the spectres.

"We thought we were going to escape...how wrong we were."

Whatever sort of demon plagued the ruins of Valyria, it was a powerful one and it had no intention to let the survivors rush back to Volantis and share what they had witnessed. Moving around Cape Damnation –as the southern point of the bay had immediately been nicknamed – the _Laughing Lion_ had been struck by a column of black winds. Clearly the storm had been conjured by the vilest and most depraved sorcery since no natural phenomenon could unleash such effect on the lands of Man.

After that point, they had not controlled a single move of their journey. The carrack had been swept aside by the demonic energy and sent in an uncharted travel southwards. All Gerion and his crew had achieved was repairing the uncountable leaks in the wooden hull. At least wherever they were going, they would have a ship.

A hope which had been forever crushed when finally the maleficent presence had vanished, letting the poor product of the Lannisport shipyards tore itself apart against the shoals of the Sothoryan shoals.

"Eleven men were good swimmers and survived this little disagreement." Chuckled the man who had managed to set foot on the land of demons and retain somewhat his sanity. "But we hadn't met the cannibals."

The rumours of men having degenerated and returned to a semi-bestial state in the jungles had been more than rumours.

Obviously.

Including himself, seven men had survived the desperate fight to be dragged thorough the jungles to a large pyramidal ruin. As far as Gerion had been able to see, it looked Ghiscari in origin...except none of Ghis expeditions had ever settled so far south. The stars were strange in this region, the animals and plants extremely dangerous and the mutants were abominations beyond name.

Loud shouts echoed in the distance and Gerion frowned. One by one, six of the seven survivors had been carried at the top of the pyramid, force-fed juicy meat, fruits and delicacies before at last being sacrificed to the Serpent God these savages venerated. A great ceremony happened once every year, and apparently it was a tradition for the heretics to engage in human sacrifices. At each occasion the survivors of the Laughing Lion had wondered who was going to the designated victim. One by one they had died.

Now he was the last. His fate was all but decided. When the drums would stop their awful pounding, it would be his time to be carried over the bloody stairs.

 _It should be Tywin here. They could at least verify he has a heart when they cut his chest open_.

Gerion laughed without any pleasure. The chances of his eldest brother to find himself in such a situation were so low they bordered on the ridiculous. New screams mounted in the nearby corridors next to his cell. A loud thud echoed, like something heavy had fallen.

"I can only hope someone will realise the danger represented by the demons before it is too late." He continued after the rumble died down. "These things plaguing the lads of Valyria are a massive threat for all the Essossi and Westerosi people."

The noise came back as he spoke these words. More shouts, more screams, accompanied by a familiar noise of weapons clashing and furious battle-cries rising in the air. Whatever was happening behind those doors, it was violent and bloody.

 _A rescue force? But Tywin wouldn't care about me and for that matter he wouldn't know where to look..._

A loud gurgle indicating someone was agonising was heard. A powerful blow struck the wooden door, life if someone had thrown a corpse against it. Gerion tried to stay calm but despite himself felt his chest burn with something he had believed extinct several years ago.

Hope.

Standing laboriously upon his feet, the youngest son of Lady Jeyne Marbrand watched with eagerness someone try to open the door. It was clearly not his cannibal jailor; the clicks and the clangs of keys being discarded one after another was proof of that.

After nearly two scores of failures, the heavy clapper grinded and let Gerion see the face of his saviour. For a moment, he was almost rendered blind due to the light, and needed a third of hourglass' turn before being able to use the detail.

"Gerion Lannister?" Asked the man in clear Westerosi.

The prisoner could only nod in stupefaction. The soldier in front of him was neither a Lannister nor the image of a heroic Faith crusader told in uncountable tales. His armour was light and of a dark colour, save the golden kraken and its tendrils.

 _A Greyjoy_?

The Ironborn's helmet was carried under his right arm, showing the man had a black eye patch over one of his eyes. A smirk was on his lips, and everything in him was showing confidence and controlled brutality.

"Come with me, if you want to live."Said the one-eyed Ironborn. "Quickly!" He barked when Gerion regarded him like one was watching a saint.

Gerion did not try to think anymore. Whether by the designs of the Seven or another God, he had been granted a reprieve. He ran out of his cell, following the Greyjoy man.

The corridor in front of his cell was full of dead mutants and the walls were marked with blood splashes. Not that the Lannister knight was going to cry over the fate of these abominations. They descended the stairs four to four, though Gerion was unavoidably lagging behind his saviour, having been imprisoned in a cell for so long.

The succession of marches ended to his great relief and they emerge in an open courtyard...for the first time in several years Gerion breathed the sweet perfume of liberty. Kay, it was very relative as three scores of men were waiting for them here and none looked like they had bathed in the last fortnight. Furthermore they had all looks one expected from pirates or particularly ugly corsairs.

"We have a problem, Captain!"

The freshly liberated man turned his head where the bare-chested man pointed his arm and gasped. While the lower part of this courtyard was full of cannibal corpses, there were hundreds more alive racing down the slopes of the ancient pyramid.

"There are too many." Added tranquilly a grey-robed man. If such a thing was not ludicrous, Gerion would have thought him a maester. But surely none of the Citadel's sages would have the courage to make the journey to Sothoryos, no?

"I am one-eyed, Qyburn." Answered the Ironborn who had just helped him escape. The battle cries of the cannibals were so loud the officer was shouting to be listened to. "I am not blind."

The dark lips of the captain widened in something too scary to be considered a smile.

"Ramsay. Do your thing."

Gerion for a moment wondered for a moment who his rescuer was talking to, before the big hulking brute at the core of the group made a few step forwards.

This was madness. No matter how strong this colossus was, there were hundreds of barbarians in the first wave with more arriving behind at each turn of hourglass.

If this thought entered the skull of the gigantic warrior, there was no sign it. Brandishing a great double axe he had kept in his back until the command came, the brute did the impossible.

He charged towards the enemy.

 _This is madness_.

And then the warrior screamed.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR HIS SKULL THRONE!"


	2. Ancient Enemies

**Ancient Enemies**

 **Maester Pylos 1**

The young maester smiled in satisfaction. After four large turn of hourglasses, his telescope was adjusted to perfection. This very night he would able to conduct his observations on the different constellations and prove the theories of Archmaester Sycar.

BLAM!

"Pylos! Archmaester Agrivane has summoned us!"

The round face of Maester Tybald, his next door's neighbour-in-studies, was full of excitation. As he walked into the light provided by the sun in the early morning, his red air took the colour of fire.

"What is so pressing Tybald?" Grumbled the Riverlander-born maester, passing a light grey cloak over his chain and the rest of his clothes. "I was preparing my next astronomic session."

"The stars haven't changed since the start of the Long Summer." Replied dismissively the Stormlands-born maester. "This night or the next won't make a big difference."

Pylos frowned but didn't reply. Tybald's denigration of the noble discipline of astronomy was nothing new. The man had earned seventeen links for his first chain, but none of them had been in electrum. In fact apart from Valyrian Steel, it was the only metal link Tybald had never bothered to learn.

Locking the door of his study room with his large bronze key, Pylos continued in his quest of information.

"You haven't told me what is so pressing."

"The Conclave has been informed there is a small library that the Cursed Sorcerer had visited before his escape."

"Another Purge, then." The heart of Pylos ached in pain at the quantity of books, scrolls and other repositories of knowledge which were going to be destroyed in the process.

"Yes." If Tybald was saddened by it, it didn't show in his attitude. "The Lord Seneschal has appointed Archmaester Agrivane for the task and they want the library examined and any heretical texts expunged from it by the end of the day."

His companion grunted in acknowledgement but internally despaired at the new delay his work on the constellations was going to take.

But there wasn't any choice. Over two moons had passed since the revelation of Archmaester's Marwyn treason, but the interrogations and the investigations were accelerating, not slowing down. Every Archmaester, Maester, Acolyte, Novice or servant who had in any manner spoken the heretical maester was lengthily scrutinised by the Conclave, the City Watch of Oldtown and the representatives of the Faith of Seven.

The latter weren't exactly welcome in the Citadel, but Pylos understood their presence though he would never enjoy the Brave Sons presence next to him. They were too enthusiast in burning books in the name of 'prudence'. Unfortunately, they were going to tolerate them for several moons. Counting their most recent traitor, three Order members in the last year had fled once their heretical actions had been discovered.

It didn't look like a big number, compared to the thousands of Novices and Acolytes, and the hundreds of maesters in the Citadel. But before the year 299AC only six maesters had broken their vows in the worst imaginable way and evaded the cohorts of the Faith, the Order and the Crown sent against them in the last century. Three new heretics in ten moons wasn't a lot, but it was a worrying tendency and all must have complicities for them to escape with the easiness they had showed.

And to make matters worse, while Vely the Beastmaster and Toric the Bringer of Ruin had been discovered by their own brethren, it was the City Watch which had discovered how far Marwyn the Cursed Sorcerer had fallen. Pylos had no idea what the men sworn to House Hightower had expected when they had pulverised the door of the house, but it had certainly not been an orgiastic ritual organised by one Arch-Maester, five Acolytes and close to two dozen whores in the name of the Demoness of Forbidden Pleasures.

"I suppose this is too much to ask if they have caught our traitor?"

"Too much, indeed." The edge of Tybald's lips twitched in a half-snicker as they climbed the great stairs leading to a floor where small libraries on very specific fields were kept. "His accomplices have given many of his caches according to the rumours, but he wasn't hiding in those."

"He must be far from here, now." For such an old man, Marwyn had revealed demonic vigour when it came to run for his life. His Acolytes had all been imprisoned and were awaiting their execution in the dungeons of the Hightower but their master had jumped half-naked from a window and disappeared into the night.

"That's the opinion of Archmaester Ocley." Replied Tybald in a voice which told Pylos he was agreeing with the master of diplomacy and foreign languages. "He said the Arch-traitor could read and speak over a dozen languages and disguise himself from a lord to a beggar in the time it takes to change of robe."

"What sort of books was stored in the room he visited?" The former Riverlander asked when he saw his counterpart knock against an unfamiliar door. In itself it didn't mean anything; the libraries, rooms and vaults found inside the Citadel had never been properly counted. It was a fool's errand anyway as the books were borrowed, copied or transported elsewhere at frequent occasions.

"Oh, you will love this." For the first time, Tybald was truly grimacing. "Prophecies."

The heavy door of brown-red painted wood opened violently and the two maesters stopped their discussion to enter the potentially heretical room. Force was to assess the work had already begun when they were in. Piles of books in various conditions were littering the ground and most were torn-apart or had their pages cut and spread on the ground. Two Brave Sons were filling a massive box with scores of scrolls. Three Quill Bearers and two members of the Order of the Lantern were strolling in the four alleys, taking a book at random and examining it. After a few seconds, they pressed the golden stamp of the seven stars if they judged its content innocent or at least not dangerous. If not, the knowledge repository was thrown on the ground, destined to be burnt into the pyres.

Seeing this, Pylos truly began to feel ill. They were the maesters. They were supposed to be scholars and healers, the guardians of science and reason, keepers of rare lore and men able to explain the unexplainable. They weren't supposed to do...this! It was wrong!

He opened his mouth to protest...only to close it when Master Merlinoc threw him a stabbing glare.

"Pylos! What are you doing standing there? The ravens aren't going to bring you the books!" The young maester felt himself reddening as snickers and mockeries were heard next to the book shelves. "You should take example on Tybald! He has already begun to work, him!"

Pylos moved his attention back to the specialist of warcraft and cartography, only to see him take over two scores of books and throw them on the floor. Not a single one had been verified but Pylos had no doubt the works were going to the pyre before sunset. And Merlinoc looked appreciative at this action! Feeling his soul die bit by bit, the black-haired maester marched in the small library – well small by Citadel standards anyway – grabbed the book in front of him.

 _Sothoryan Myths and Prophecies_ by Maester Mulor.

He didn't see how the plague-ridden jungles of the southern and far-away continent could present a danger and the first pages read confirmed it. The rare ships coming back from Sothoryos were quarantined at Volantis or at Lys, no? And there were no demons or heretic worshippers in these distant waters, just pirates. The heretic cultists didn't tend to last long against the corsairs and the fleets of other outlaws attacking the Essossi trade. Pylos was in the process of placing back the book where it belonged - a process extremely easy due to the number of works already removed – when the muscled Brave Son on his right tore Sothoryan myths and Prophecies from his hands and cut it in two with a large dagger far too big for library work.

"Lax in your work, eh?" The ugly face of the Faith devotee was vicious. "I almost thought you were going to let a heretical text escape the just retribution of the Seven!" His Westerosi was horrible and was revealing smallfolk origins. "Shame! You could have been summoned to the Starry Sept for that!"

Pylos watched around him the five or six maesters who had been forced to come with him and endure this nauseating presence, but the other grey robes which could be seen across the shelves were totally ignoring him with their eyes elsewhere.

 _So it's like this_?

The farce was painfully evident. The Conclave and the Starry Sept had decided this room was an acceptable compromise in order to stop heresy accusations and the Purge was going to erase all the prophecy books, not just those which were found dangerous doctrinally or speaking of things the highborn had no wish to see realised.

Therefore it was with a certain grim reluctance he threw over four scores of books on the ground in less time it took to say it. _Murmurs of Victory_ , _Prophecies of Distant Lands_ , _Omens of the Future_ , the _Prophecies for the Ignorant_ , _The Dreams of the Dreamer_...everything was discarded. Some of the books were perfectly preserved and hundreds of years old. Their value was literally priceless. For the imbeciles the Faith and his own superiors, these were inconvenient reminders they were not infallible.

Pylos didn't believe in prophecies. It was a nebulous area of magic, and magical practitioners routinely proved they couldn't be trusted – Marwyn was just the most recent example, the three last Archmaesters granted the mask and rod of Valyrian Steel had all had dramatic deaths. But none of the authors of these works to his best knowledge had been guilty of heresy. It wasn't like destroying knowledge in precipitation couldn't have grave consequences: it was whispered in the dark corridors a Purge done some forty years ago on the archives of the Westerlands had led to a rise of tensions between House Lannister and its rebellious Reyne-Tarbeck bannersmen. With the well-known consequences immortalised in the _Rains of Castamere_.

At least his decimation of the books got the Brave Son away from him. The Father-worshipper walked at the other extremity of his alley, where another maester manifested the same reluctance to throw away good parchment. The reprimand was not discrete but then the young maester supposed it was one of the things researched. Scare every maester not complying with the narrow-minded instructions and tell them they all will burn as heretics if they're not grey little sheep.

The sun passed at the zenith before starting its long course down, accompanied by the bird calls and the powerful wind coming from the sea. Hundreds of books were taken away and the library room began to feel desperately empty. Alleys after alleys went hollow, with only a few books remaining – Pylos was not surprised when he recognised the names of their authors: they had all been written by highly renowned septons.

 _Good to know the Faith isn't willing to burn their own writings_.

The thought was one step away from sacrilege but the Riverlander-born maester found he didn't really care. If the _Seven-Pointed Star_ was vandalised before him, he wouldn't move one finger to stop it. Wouldn't it be funny that the Brave Sons weren't able to recognise their sacred book? His back, arms and legs were beginning to ache as he threw the _Compendium of the East_ and the _Arcane of the Shadows_ in the boxes that newly-arrived Acolytes and Faithful came to take away.

The Purge was nearly over, the supposedly-heretical books were disappearing in the hands of Quill Bearers and he was contemplating with eagerness the prospects of a good, hot bath...when disaster struck.

The very Brave Son who had insulted and belittled him earlier in the day had decided cutting the book he had in his hands was a very good way to show his devotion to the Seven. Or maybe he was bored and wanted something to destroy before the rest of the staff present had finished their tasks.

One way or another, his cutting instrument plunged into the pages of a book which had been named the _Codex of Tomorrow_. The result was nearly instantaneous. A cloud of darkness emerged from the parchment and surrounded the man. Pylos was struck immobile and unable to find any words. Not by choice; he really wanted to flee, scream, alert the reaction forces the Citadel always maintained nearby but he was magically paralysed.

The screams the Faithful made were unpleasant in the extreme. Of course, given that it looked like the dark...thing...was acting like a powerful acid on his skin, this reaction was perfectly normal.

After what looked like an eternity, the screams of the Brave Son ceased and the Brave Son was released from its fatal grip. And it was fatal, half of its body had been so dissolved the bones underneath were now clearly visible.

The cloud-thing was far from finished however. Instead of dissipating or going back to the infernal pages he had been waiting for, it grew in volume like a balloon one got for free at the Hugor's Day parade. But the shock or paralysis it created ceased.

Pylos threw himself on the floor and not a moment too soon: a sort of shadow arm came out of the cloud to strike the shelves behind him. Once again it was like a powerful acid had been sprayed on the black wood.

"OUT!"

"Let's get away!" Screamed another Brave Son, his courage against true and uncontested heresy having apparently vanished the second the darkness killed his friend. Grey, brown, white and multi-coloured robes rushed towards the door...provoking a massive jam and plenty of collisions. One Acolyte was pushed aside and only avoided being trampled by the slimmest of margins. A maester – maybe Merlinoc though it was difficult to be sure in this chaos – was kicked in the head and the chest by several Faithful for being in the way.

Pylos in the meanwhile took cover behind one of the intact shelves. What was going to emerge from this cloud? An army of demons? Gigantic corrupted bees?

No...the darkness took the form of the visage of...Archmaester Marwyn?

"DO. NOT. TOUCH. MY. AFFAIRS!" Shouted the construct before laughing evilly. There was a ripple on the visage and then the murderous magical creation disappeared like it had never existed. A sort of black dust slowly disintegrated in the air and several Novices, Acolytes and Faithful who had not been fast enough to evade the attack collapsed, drained from their most precious commodity. Life.

"The Archmaesters weren't telling tales when they said he was crazy." Remarked the Acolyte directly on Pylos's left. A quick glance revealed the aspirant had seven chains to his neck, dark skin, curvy black hair and dark eyes revealing a Dornish ancestry.

There was no need to ask who was the 'he' in question.

"Indeed, not." Coughed Pylos, who accepted with gratitude the hand of the younger man. "Thank you...?"

"Acolyte Alleras. But everyone calls me the Sphinx here."

Pylos thanked again the Dornish Acolyte before leaving as fast as humanly possible the devastated library. Because If Archmaester Marwyn could do this many victims with one book, what could he do with two or three? And no one had any idea how many works had been corrupted by the demonic forces in the last years.

Pylos shivered. Really the Citadel didn't feel like a bastion of security and peace against Chaos anymore.

* * *

 **Daena Blackfyre 1**

Any intelligent enemy would have renounced taking the hill by now.

The lower part of the slope was literally covered in corpses, crippled horses and dying men. So much blood had flowed that the deep grin grass had turned a crimson colour. The lines of the Company of the Flame Arrows were unbroken, their long spears projecting long shadows under the sun. The long shields of her soldiers had been lightly damaged, but this was an acceptable price when one considered the ridiculous number of arrows they had been targeted with. Said projectiles had proven useless against the well-forged steel of Essos.

Their enemies could have escaped. Daena had less than five hundred cavalry all told and she had her back against the Quoyne River. In a straight-chase, she had no chance to catch them. They should have escaped if they had a general having any sense in his skull. But these barbarians racing at them were Dothraki. And the horselords had never been renowned for their military sense. Plus the imbecile who commanded them had promised that he would rape her once her Company was defeated and then let the rest of the khalasar have its way with her body.

Men were really stupid like that sometimes.

The Dothraki came back. Launching the few scores of arrows they had left in their quivers, the horses galloped to their dooms. Or at least they tried to. Four times they had done it since the sun had risen over this battlefield two leagues south of Ar Noy. The Dothraki had many horses in their camps, allowing them in theory to replace their losses each time they launched a new charge. But with their proud stallions dying at each charge against the deadly rain of her bows and the pikes, the Dothraki horses reserves had been devastated by the time the third assault commenced.

They had considerably less than that on the fifth one, and all were tired. There were far less cavaliers too. Khal Zekko had had roughly eighteen thousand cavalrymen when the swords were drawn and the horns sounded. Eighteen thousand against her seven thousand. If the brainless barbarian had still six thousand screamers holding their whips and arakhs now, she would be astonished.

The khalasar hurled its rage and closed the distance in a cacophony of bells as the horselords braids rang in the wind. The dirty black hairs were covered in blood and Daena could see their grimaces and the hate animating their traits. Many were wounded and their bare chests were hideous with all the scars and dirt they had received in the previous clashes. Truly massacring these savages was a favour to Essos and the rest of the civilised realms. After the Doom, the barbarians had grown too arrogant, profiting from the fall of the Freehold and the following civil wars to pillage and annihilate whoever stood in their way. But no more.

Tired and spurred bloodily by their riders, the horses tried once again to refuse charging the wall of pikes waiting for them. The animals were more intelligent than the masters. Screaming in voices which made her glad she did not understand the Dothraki language, the scarred screamers threw their mounts over the shields they had failed four times to break.

Once again they failed. About one in three animals were caught by an implacable spear, throwing their owner violently on the corpses of their friends. In many cases, the horse died on top of them, making this tactical error a fatal one. The rest broke, turned their backs on the heavy infantry line, with entire groups being slaughtered by her long-range troops. A few hundreds of Zekko's barbarians tried to flank them and escalade the hill on their right, but it was a doomed cause. This was a clear day of summer, and the experimented men and women she had gathered here could see any moves a hundred leagues away. There was nowhere to hide for the Dothraki. There was no grand disaster to make sure their colossal stupidity would grant them somehow victory. She did not let them use their mobility or their speed. And when a Dothraki horde lacked all these advantages, they did the only good thing they ever were able to on this bloodied earth.

They died.

"Caellach! Charge!"

Her red-haired second didn't waste any moment before taking his massive Valyrian's sword _Tiger's Eye_ over his head and shouting like if wanted the Gods to hear him.

"KILL THEM! KILL THEM ALL!" The order was spoken as the Blackfyre sellsword was slamming his heavy shield into the head of a wounded Dothraki. Teeth flowed and Caellach took great pleasure in slamming repeatedly the head of the barbarian against his tiger-decorated protection.

Then the Company of the Flame Arrows advanced down the slope, murdering the injured Dothraki and dismounting the few screamers who had escaped their army's destruction. Calling it a charge was a bit of a misnomer certainly; the sellsword lines were marching at a rapid pace for a walk but it wasn't running. But Daena was fine with it. She wanted a methodical and total victory, not a brawl which would favour the last Dothraki survivors. She had lost less than five hundred casualties in this entire campaign, she saw no reason why one more man would be lost to these savages.

The impressive screams of Khal Zekko were not heard anymore and as Daena watched over the battlefield, she was unable to locate the leader of the khalasar. Hopefully one of the officers would manage to locate his corpse and bring him back. The head of a khal was always worth a few hundred gold coins when delivered to the Free Cities magisters and dignitaries.

For the Dothraki, this battle was taking progressively the appearance of a very large disaster. Before the fifth charge, Daena had released her last two hundred heavy cavalry on her left side, and now these horses were flanking the remnants of the barbarians while her infantry was working like an anvil, smashing aside the defenceless and demoralised Dothraki. To say her enemies were routing was somewhat misleading. Leaderless, half of their surviving men lacking their horses and forced unnaturally to go on foot, the Dothraki were hesitating between running and throwing their lives against the spears and shields of her steel rampart. A somewhat intelligent group of men would have thrown down their weapons and begged for their lives. A competent sellsword commander would have raised a parley flag and asked for terms. The Dothraki...were the Dothraki. The most inexperienced tried to flee; the ones unable to understand the concept of withdrawal were massacred by the scores.

This was a bloodbath. Many of her men were passing the spears behind and drawing their short swords, the latter being more useful than the former for this type of butchery. Rapidly the throats of the barbarians were opened, entrails came to the light, corpses were trampled and heads rolled all over. Lone riders tried to go back to their camp and their families, but the cavalry she had unleashed were pressing them hard. The Dothraki women and children soon were going to experience the joys of slavery and fill the Blackfyre coffers with a little fortune.

Most of the danger presented by the enemy archers had perished with them when they were trounced by Caellach and Daena removed her black helm, letting her silver hair flow into the light northern wind. The day had been mildly hot and battle had made her very thirsty even if the Dothraki made very poor opponents. She emptied a jug of water before giving her next orders. Half of the Company was commanded to continue in the direction of the Dothraki camp while the rest of the sellswords looted the battlefield and guarded the camp.

"Maester Vely!"

"Yes, my lady?"

Compared to the tall and muscled men filling the ranks of her Company, the man who marched calmly out of the tents left at the top of the hill was really crooked and frail. His skin was so pale one could almost believe he was sick and the dark robes he wore only emphasized how gaunt was his visage. Vely was a Westerosi, but most of her men preferred to compare him with an evil spirit escaped from one of the thousand of Hells which existed in Essossi religions. The fallen maester preferred however to be called 'Ravenlord'. For the explanation to this curious surname, one had just to look on his shoulder where a raven was perched.

It was a very big raven, really. Twice the size of an average one, bigger than the birds of prey the Volantene nobility bred for their hunts. Many soldiers had seen the results of clashes between these oversized creatures and eagles or falcons...the black birds had not won every encounter but they had given plenty of suffering to their opponents. Vely had bred them somehow and made them more intelligent, and there was no way to deny they provided a priceless advantage for long-range communications. The big ravens were faster than the homing pigeons and doves in use by the wealthy merchants of the Free Cities, evaded the arrows of Dothraki archers with frightening ease and never lost their way.

For the moment however they were in limited supply and their creator was the only one they obeyed without question.

"Prepare a message for my brother. Daemon will want to know Khal Zekko has ceased to be a nuisance on our flanks."

"As you command, my lady." The maester answered formally. Then again she had never seen him show much emotion when he spoke. Except when he spoke of the Citadel maesters. There you could be sure to hear the hate. "We have also received the messages you expected from the Orange Ravagers and Rhoynar Exiles. They will rally your banners though I fear the Ravagers have suffered losses against the Company of the Cat."

"Good. Keep a raven or two in reserve for them though. Maybe the Lord Exalted of the Ravagers will need a reminder or two that his loyalties require...assurances."

Vely smiled and the raven croaked in an excited manner. It was not a pleasant spectacle to look upon. Instead Daena turned her eyes back on the battlefield where her Company was finishing murdering the Dothraki screamers. Hundreds of men were already piling the corpses for the looting to come. And her second climbed back the hill, his familiar orange and black armour making recognisable from afar. In his right arm was a head Daena had seen the day before hurling insults at her. Now the mouth was forever silent.

"The head you requested." As always Caellach arrogance literally transpired in each of his word.

"This is your fourth, no?"

"Yes..." If anything the face of the veteran sellsword was more disappointed than anything when he looked at the decapitated head of the Dothraki. "But he wasn't really a challenge. I thought Zekko had survived all his charges because he was skilled with the arakh. It appears he was just more cowardly than the rest of his bloodriders."

"You will have your chance for bigger game soon, Caellach."

The red-haired mercenary did not outright call her a liar, but by his raised eyebrows it was a very close thing.

"How? Between the Golden Company of your twin and our own efforts, we must have destroyed seven or eight khalasars. And the Free Cities are sending more companies our way now that we have proven the horselords are useless when someone competent is facing them."

She had only to speak one word.

"Drogo."

"Ah..." The predatory smile of Caellach was impossible to miss. "Yes, an opponent worthy of my blade. The last 'Great Khal' west of Qohor."

The leader of the Company of the Flame Arrows left there her subordinate contemplating his dreams of glory and battle. There were other preparations to make, new companies to coordinate their moves with, supplies to gather and Dothraki slaves to be sold.

Because whether her men suspected it or not, this contract to teach humility to the barbarians was just the first step of a decades-old plan. At long last, the Blackfyres siblings had managed to coalesce around them the support they needed. New companies were flocking to their banner. Tyrosh was finally promising the ships which had been bargained before their birth.

It would not happen tomorrow or the next moon. They had still a khalasar rumoured to number in the fifty or sixty thousands to fight. They needed more contracts and gold from Braavosi and Pentoshi bankers to pay their women and men under their banner. Armours and swords had to be forged. Volantene associates had to be courted and invited to their sides.

But before the next couple of years, the black dragons would cross back the Narrow Sea with the most powerful invasion force they had ever gathered in six wars. The weak descendants of Daeron the Usurper would learn the Stepstones campaign had not been a total failure for King Maelys.

And this time the Targaryen dynasty's grip on the Iron Throne would not survive.

 _Savour your last moments of peace, false dragons. We are coming back...let's see if you remember your House words._

* * *

 **Quaithe of the Shadow 1**

She had seen many ugly beasts in her life, but this one was particularly repulsive and foul-smelling. The fangs – due to their size and shape, it would not do to call them teeth – were yellow and irregular. Red angry eyes fixed the crowd surrounding its cage while touching primitive talismans hanging around his misshaped neck. Its clothing was a dusty thing alternating between a beggar's cloth and very cheap armour. The protruding brow, the elongated jaws, the guttural groans and the crouched appearance all concentrated to give an impression of unbridled savagery.

But she had no doubt it was the deep green skin of the beast which had attracted the curious currently circulating in the slave's market. The rumours and tales existing on the green monsters had multiplied in the last decades. For the common warlock of Asshai-by-the-Shadow, this was the opportunity to watch the warmongering barbarians in their own eyes and link an image with a name.

Orc.

"Come near! Come near!" Shouted the auctioneer in charge of this part of the market. "Behold the Orc!"

Quaithe smiled under her red mask when the men and women, far from obeying the order, gave the cage containing the monster a large berth. This might have something to do with the green non-human grabbing the steel bars which held it prisoner and growling in hate while revealing its impressive dentition.

"A beast born to fight and die!" Declaimed the slave-master with the smile of someone about to swindle someone of a large purse. "With the appropriate enslaving-spells, this beast captured in the Mountains of the Morn will be a superb gladiator, a peerless slave-warrior or one of your fiercest bodyguards!"

The acclamations from the masked and veiled ranks of Asshai spellsingers and warlocks were rather muted, but the foreigners of Slaver's Bay were more than happy to scream their approval. Pit warriors and the Unsullied were the bread and the water for the cities of Meereen and Astapor; it was likely the merchants coming from these cities were judging how many fights in the arena the beast would endure in the arena before succumbing.

As for a bodyguard role, Quaithe was less certain and she had forgotten more mind-control methods in her lifetime than certain aeromancers knew spells. Trusting a human-eater beast in your presence to behave itself...no, there were limit not to be crossed. Let the Meereenese buy the orc for an impressive massacre in the arena. Quaithe preferred her servants to understand human language, know their right from their left and generally follow directions. All things orks would meet huge difficulties whether under a spell or not.

"One hundred talents and this ork is yours to satisfy your most brutal desires!" Proclaimed the bearded slaver. Many mouths emitted sounds of deception as the sum was not one they could afford. Moreover they would have to pay a warlock or a shadowbinder to bind the ork and none of Quaithe's counterparts services were cheap. Still, there were many hands which were raised for the green-skinned non-human. The auction started like the thousands others happening each day, with the acclamations of the crowd and the gibberish screamed by the ork.

"One hundred and twenty!"

"One hundred and forty!"

The price climbed quickly over two hundred talents, a considerable quantity of gold for a slave which could only be used for war purposes. The number of potential buyers dried like water under the terrible shadows of her home city and the contest remained between four or five men and women. Only one was from Asshai, a water spellsinger named Avraithe. The rest were foreigners, the kind always attracted in the City of Shadows by the magic dealings and the rare creatures brought from every corner of the world.

"Three hundred and eighty talents!" Exclaimed an obese merchant who by his traits had Ghiscari origins. The golden harpies decorating his head, his clothes and his rings revealed a complete lack of taste and pointed his belonging to one of the Meereenese slaver companies. It was men like this who had an astonishing influence in the flesh trade. How low the descendants of Old Ghis had fallen when one considered their legions had fought tooth and nail against the dragons of the rising Freehold. Now they were reduced to sell their own women, men and children as slaves...and sometimes the rest of the populations massacred by the Dothraki or the corsair fleets plaguing the Summer Sea.

"Three hundred and eighty talents, anyone?" Asked the auctioneer. By the twitch of his mouth and the satisfied expression she read deep in his gaze, the man had won his day with this sell. "Three hundred and eighty talents?" His head scrutinised his audience, silently gazing if there was a novice fool enough to add a few more talents but no participants manifested a desire to acquire something expensive and that they couldn't sleep with. "No? Then the orc goes to Master Dahojaz."

The fat Meereen slave-trader giggle in a sound no man worthy of the name should be able to make and left in a whirlwind of pink and gold, leaving his large escort deal with the laborious process of putting the orc's cage on a chariot.

Quaithe shut down the purple drapes of her ebony palanquin and signalled her servants with the small silver bell on her left. As distracting as this slave auction was, it was time to go back to her temple. According to the deep scrying she had performed during the last days, her next visitor should have arrived now.

Yet as her servants transported her from the Great Market to her residence and nexus of power, Quaithe couldn't help but wonder at this coincidence. Her most important visitor of the year had been forced in exile by the greenskins and now an orc was sold before her on such an inauspicious day? It could be just a poor turn of events, but as a shadowbinder binding the threads of darkness and future in her vision, Quaithe was afraid it was something more. Something unpleasant.

The orcs were never good news when they were involved in human affairs. She didn't need her visions or any magical powers to understand that. In the last centuries, the Yi-Tish armies had fought uncountable battles against the green beasts, to the point the Golden Empire of the Dawn eastern garrisons were mobilising a far greater number of men than the Jogos Nhai frontier.

No one knew how the orcs had arrived on this world. If a capricious deity or a mad warlock was responsible for it, they hadn't claimed the deed – and the death the rest of the world would inflict unto them. But everyone knew what the monsters wanted: war. The strategists of the God-Emperor thus were letting the big brutes fight each other in the Mountains of the Morn rather than trying to exterminate them one by one. That way less humans died for a hopeless cause.

Quaithe readjusted her long black robe proclaiming her status of shadowbinder and disciplined her thoughts as her palanquin finally stopped. The orcs could wait until she had finished with her 'guest'. A yellowish palanquin guarded by thin eunuchs was all the confirmation to know he had already arrived.

On every side of the onyx avenue leading to her power base, hundreds of men and women threw themselves to the ground when the drapers were drawn open and her left feet touched the ground of Asshai-by-the-Shadow.

Slowly she crossed the long alley leading to her quarters, manipulating six threads of nights in each of her hands to ensure none of her current enemies had managed to use her little travel to place magical traps or any other dangerous surprises. Her very rank in the city normally sufficed to frighten the ambitious and the powerful into submission but she had not reached her place at the top of the Asshai society by taking risks. Furthermore it warned her visitor she was here and fully in control of her faculties.

A shot climb of her dark marble stairs and she entered the entrance room where a middle-aged man of Yi-Tish descent waited. He wore yellow robes which had seen better days, a talisman of sapphires and ancient runes supported by several gold chains around his neck. A shot beard and inexpressive dark eyes completed the picture.

"Lord Sorcerer Chai Cao."

The title was more a recognisance of power and politeness for the sake of it. Once upon a time, there had been an azure sash on the sorcerer's robe representing his allegiance to the seventeenth God-Emperor Bu Gai. No more. Chai Cao had broken his allegiance to the Azure Dynasty when he had murdered ten of his former brethren of the Magical School of Yin and over two hundred soldiers who had come to arrest him.

"Your Eminency of Darkness." Replied the man who by all rights figured in second position on the Golden Empire list of persons they wanted dead yesterday. Only the traitor general Pol Qo had a bigger recompense on his head. "I think you know what brings me here today."

"You have failed taming the orks tribes of the Mountains of the Morn. Your quest to topple the Empire you served is getting more difficult moon after moon. Your allies are rallying the sides of the Orange Pretender or are begging the eunuchs of the capital to be merciful."

With another of her shadowbinder peers Quaithe would have been far more diplomatic, presenting him various samples of the essences she had gathered from Qarthene and Volantene traders, but the Yi-Tish exile had a reputation for cruelty, bluntness and finding a way to kill each of the 'allies' he had made during the last moons. She trusted far more her opponents in this city than Chai Cao.

"In a few words, you have managed to describe nicely my problems, Your Eminency." If the Yellow Pretender to the throne of Yin seemed bothered she was aware of his plans to launch a greenskin horde against Yi Ti, there was no sign of it in his eyes or on his face and body. "My cause declines and collapses as we speak. The orcs and their crude powers were imperfect instruments for the task I demanded of them. As I led an army against the Winged Men to get rid of the weaklings, my fortress of Carcosa exploded into infighting because a goblin shaman had dreams of his stupid Gods!"

Behind her mask, Quaithe maintained an admirable amount of control not to roll her eyes at the Yi-Tish arrogance. Orcs were warmongering but they weren't going to follow a human without magic enslaving them. The green brutes rarely tolerated someone of their own race at the equivalent of a General's command. Obeying a human would have taken not a miracle, but hundreds of them.

"What do you want?" The most powerful shadowbinder of Asshai demanded, knowing fully the answer before it was uttered.

"I want Yi Ti to burn! I want Bu Gai to prostrate himself in front of me and beg for his life!" There was more than a shadow of folly in the Lord of Carcosa's eyes at each of his snarls. "And to do this I need the Sword."

Ah, yes the Sword. A blade known by many names in different tongues, languages and cultures but the one coming back with regularity was Lightbringer. It was mentioned in Ulthian legends as the Blade of Hope, in ancient Ghiscari the records gave it the name the Warsong. In Asshai it had been given a more appropriate name of course.

The End of Empires.

Its translation in the demonic dialects had fortunately been lost through the millennia and it was for the best. Names had powers.

"The Sword was last seen in the Sunset lands millennia ago. You are searching a myth."

And she didn't even need to lie on this one. Of all the visions she had had in the last decades, very few included the Sword...thank all the Gods of the Creation for this.

"I don't think so." Replied the traitor Lord Sorcerer with such a haughty tone the shadowbinder wondered how in the Holy Darkness this spellcaster had managed to graduate at Yin without being assassinated. "With it the Lion of the Night banished the Demons of the Grey Waste and built the Golden Empire. With it, I will cast it down and have my revenge."

There was a multitude of ways to answer this impolite request but only seven great outcomes could lead from there. The first two would leave her home destroyed and Asshai in flames from their magical duel. Immoral and arrogant Chai Cao might be, but the sorcerer was an extremely dangerous opponent. Maybe she would manage to kill him. But there was an unpleasant possibility the opposite would happen. The next four choices weren't better. All saw in the next four years the entirety of Yi Ti fall under the tide of monsters, whether they were orcs or demons.

The seventh case remained. A desperate option and by the winds of fate Quaithe wished she would never had to contemplate it. But these were desperate times and the time for preparations was running out.

"In this case...try the Citadel of Oldtown in the Sunset Kingdoms. Their library is second to none in Westeros and their second floor holds a room with a blue door containing the clues they have gathered."

The yellow-robed magical practitioner made an imperceptible nod and relaxed his stance.

"My thanks, Your Eminency. I bid you goodbye."

Quaithe waited for the steps to find in the distance and the protections she had installed around her home to confirm Chai Cao was gone.

"Your vengeance will end on Westeros, Lord of Carcosa." It was a dark trade but she was ready to make it. What the Yi-Tish betrayer would have done to the Empire he had once served in the name of his vengeance was too terrible to contemplate.

Moreover in all the futures Chai Cao remained in this part of the world, Asshai-by-the-Shadow didn't stand a chance. In some threads, her existence was cut short by hundreds of mad greenskins shamans. Dozens times she had seen her efforts and those of the shadowbinders fail against an endless tide of orcs. Quaithe had heard the powerful roars of 'Thraka!' reverberate through past, present and future, mourned when she saw the spires and the millennia-old temples of the Art burn in an inferno while millions of monsters pillaged.

These were the most pleasant futures she had been able to examine. The orcs were a threat, but humanity could survive. Not so if the demons won and the pillars of reality were unmade. And in these futures, she and the rest of the warlocks lost far more than their lives in this desperate war. They lost their very souls to these abominations.

It couldn't happen. It wouldn't happen. With outside help and careful manipulation of the threads, a future where the living had a chance still existed.

"But for the Sunset Lands, this is the end of the road."

* * *

 **Asha Greyjoy 1**

The sky was a deep blue. There may be three or four scores of words in as many different tongues all over the known seas to describe it but she didn't know them. It was blue anyway and it was enough for her eyes. Blue sky, no clouds, no winds; no doubt a thousand greenlanders cheered a thousand leagues eastwards from here at the perfect day of summer their Seven had granted them. For a proper sailor however, this kind of sky was a hardship in itself. The sun cooked the skins of the crewmen and crewwomen in less time it took for a middle-sized hourglass to lose all its sand. The salt and the warmth became properly unbearable. The reserves of drinkable water became emptier and emptier as men abandoned all their love for ale, beer or anything having the slightest taste of alcohol. Every year around the world, countless ships were lost when a hull found suddenly becalmed in the middle of nowhere. With no wind, a ship's crew could mutiny and destroy whatever discipline had existed aboard. Navigators could make mistakes and be prone to hallucinations. Contrary to one might think, having oars and the men to action them wasn't always a good thing. She had heard the tales of men fainting at the effort of going to their posts, unable to row such was their tiredness. More recently she had seen it from her very eyes when the _Great Tide_ had arrived with half of its crew gone and the rest not far from death.

Ironborn longships had several oars but less than a true galley in Royal service. The swallow draft of their wooden structure added to the ten-plus oars and the single mast ensured they were swift and nimble, able to distance and outmanoeuvre their opponents on the blue immensities. But these fast raiders were crewed by mortals and absent the favour of the Drowned God or the wrath of the Storm God, there was nothing they could do on this windless day. It was not strictly true she knew...lesser ships and captains could have gone a few nautical out there and try to catch the grey fishes whose banks fed the entire Iron Islands. Another day they could have verified the prow, the stern, the sails and every little wooden piece which was necessary for the _Black Wind_ to sail the known seas.

But this summer weather had been over their heads for the best part of five moons and her crewmen had enough. Fishing brought sustenance, but they had done it three days ago and the daughter of a Lord Paramount could only do that kind of activity so many times before rumours began to spread she wasn't fit to reave and be her own mistress.

Asha cursed under her breath several insults she had learned at Tyrosh on her last travel. She spoke very badly this low variant of Valyrian – unlike her Lyseni which was close to fluent – but it was something cursing the merchants and the money-grubbers to go mate with goats. No sign of divine retribution, no breeze, not a whisper of wind manifested itself. The main bay of Harlaw was still the same peaceful blue. The high towers of her uncle Rodrik's home in the distance shone brightly under the implacable sun, like they had for the many moons she had passed at Ten Towers. It was a beautiful scene...and she wanted none of it. Her brothers had had too satisfied expressions when they looked at her before they went away with their Lord Father.

Worse, this had been the last day the southern wind had manifested itself. The Lord Reaper of Pyke had had all the luck. The Black Wind's captain and her crew had not. Forget her planned adventure to the distant Stepstones where she had lost her virginity and gained a fine quantity of loot when storming two Essossi merchants. With the lack of wind over the entire Sunset Sea, she would be lucky to reach the Reach coast before her supplies ran out. And thus she and the _Black Wind_ waited for favourable winds – or any wind at all truthfully - hoping the winds would rise again before her Lord Father returned and whatever plan he and her dear idiots of brothers had elaborated fell upon her head.

Sensing a familiar presence behind her, Asha playfully threw her axe in the air, catching her with her left hand without looking when it descended. When she turned her attention towards the three men who had approached behind her, two of them had stopped, their visages tense, the guardsmen in service of House Harlaw obviously asking themselves if they were going to serve as target practise or be challenged to one of her famous contests of axe-throwing.

Strangely, after Rodrik had lost two fingers a couple years ago, few captains and renowned warriors had been enthusiastic in those. What a pity.

The third man of their group did not appear to be as concerned, watching her with an expression which was close to the rolling of eyes for him. But then the Knight of Grey Garden was always difficult to impress and his choice of weapon was the sword, not the axe.

"Harras. What is it?"

"You uncle wants to see you."

Asha wanted to grimace but the need to always present an attitude devoid of weakness made sure there was no sign of it on her cheeks or in her eyes when she retorted the usual platitudes of how the Reader couldn't let go of her company for a moment. The two guards were torn between fixing the twirls she imposed to her axe and the roll of her hips. They swallowed the excuse hook, line and sinker. Harras did not appear fooled. But then again he knew her for years; Asha had seen him in uncountable occasions since she and her mother had more or less made their home at ten Towers six years ago.

And of course Harras knew she had been eating with her uncle for the first and last meals of the day for the last fortnight. For him to request her return from her observation post on the Bay meant news had arrived. And given her general misfortune these last days, they were unlikely to be good.

"He's still in the library?"

"Reading the _Mysteries of the Depths_ this Ibbenese traveller sold him last moon." Confirmed the wielder of the Valyrian sword Nightfall.

"So he has not stopped his efforts to create an appropriate Ibbenese-Westerosi translation, then?"

"You know your uncle." Said Harras with a small smile.

"Oh yes."

Asha herself could read and speak in three different languages thanks to her mother and the rest of her Harlaw tutors: Common Tongue of Westeros, High Valyrian – with a preference for the Lyseni variant - and Summer Tongue. Those and she had long learnt the difficult art of trade talk.

To her best knowledge, Lord Rodrik Harlaw knew nine – not including all the variants of High and Low Valyrian he spoke like a native – and it looked like in the recent years he had at last decided to learnt the tongue of the Ibbenese. No wonder certain of his bannersmen sometimes joked in his back that the Reader had lost his true calling when he didn't go to the Citadel. Asha herself was less sure: a lot of books her uncle had bought and stored in his personal collection were at the very least slightly controversial on the continent. The most...esoteric ones were outright heretical. Not that it was a problem on the Iron Islands. Since her Lord Father had first been seated on the Seastone Chair, huge efforts had been made to banish the Seven worshippers, augment the ranks of the Drowned God followers and discourage anything practised by the greenlanders. One might say the Iron Islands today were a foyer of heresy able to rival other regions offending the preachers and errant septons of the Faith.

"I think I will find the way." The sole and only daughter of Lord Balon Greyjoy told her cousin. "Warn my crew I will not join them before sunset to the _Rich Reaver_."

"The longship or the tavern?"

This time both Harras and Asha rolled their eyes at the dim-witted black-haired spearsman. This one had obviously not been chosen for his intelligence.

"The tavern. Why would I want anything with the Codds?"

On this repartee she left the group of three and Asha began the march to Harlaw alone. She saluted the old reavers half-sleeping who were in charge of the nearby watch tower and then made a detour on the left to avoid trampling the golden-coloured cereals which were almost ready to be harvested. Captain and a woman of a Lord Paramount House she may be, but the thralls and the freedmen labouring the earth took their duties very seriously on Harlaw. Great Wyk was the greatest of the Iron Islands, Pyke was its capital and had the greatest harbour but Harlaw was the most populated and the breadbasket of the archipelago. Many Noble Houses of Pyke, Blacktyde and Old Wyk had only barren lands to their name, with the iron, lead, tin and copper of their mines for only resources. Harlaw had a few of those but it was especially renowned for its fields where men could work without breaking their backs and the modest trade it made with the mainland.

Many of the lowborn she met recognised her and bowed. With all the time she had passed on Harlaw, Asha had become an almost familiar figure. Besides with her long black hair going down her neck and her tight leather clothes, she could hardly pass as a man. The large black hat she had taken the habit of wearing to protect herself from the fury of the sun was also impossible to mistake for anything else. Maybe she would keep it for her next venture on the seas.

The sun was still high when she passed the gates of Ten Towers were bored guards did their best to find some relief in the shadows and the proximity of the cold-watered dwells. Three on four servants and sworn swords looked at her with extenuated eyes. The rest were harbouring bored or lusty expressions. Whatever news the Reader had received had not made it out of his library. The patrols were proceeding at the same pace she had left them in the morning.

A few cooks proposed cold crab pies at low prices. A few children kicked a large sack of leather in the part of the shadowed court.

Leaving them behind, Asha entered the Book Tower. Whatever name had been given to him two hundred and fifty years ago wasn't remembered anymore; in this era it was the place the Lord had installed its impressive and growing library. Ten Towers was a relative new castle and the stairs had not suffered from time erosion, but she was feeling the strain when she reached the top. The captain of the Black Wind was used to climb to this place at least thrice per fortnight, but the weather made it an even more difficult proposition.

As she knocked on the door decorated with the silver scythe of House Harlaw, Asha figured the tower was getting quieter these days. In his young years Rodrik had used septons to take care of the hundreds of books he brought back from his reavings in the Jade and Summer Seas. She knew her uncle had asked the maesters to send a few of their young hands to the task but the experiment had turned short when a few of the grey sheep had tried to spirit away certain rare rolls of parchment. The task had then fallen on septons known for their flexibility of mind, but her father's fierce campaign to expulse anyone not worshipping the Drowned God had made them return to the continent in a hurry. Today he relied on Harlaw youngsters and a few chosen servants he had taken the time to train. But there were never enough of them.

The office she entered was unsurprisingly full of books on the most diverse topics. The desk and the shelves contained several scores of heavy volumes, references and ownership catalogues of the vast library situated under her feet. Her uncle had stopped reading the massive tome in front of him and was watching her with an amused expression.

"Ah, my favourite niece."

"Ah, my favourite uncle."

Both chuckled after a short moment of looking each other in the eye. Asha was pretty much the only niece or female cousin Rodrik had not received a proposition to remarry with. She was also fortunate he considered her as a daughter more than a niece, a welcome refuge from whatever Drowned madness reigned in Pyke. On her side of the family, the title of 'uncle' was more a curse than a favoured title. Euron was raving mad and had been exiled when she was two and ten for a multitude of crimes so abominable people refused to speak of them. Victarion was infamous for having killed his wife with his own hands, a burning temper and his brutal control of the Iron Fleet. Aeron was a drunk who forgot his own name when he had poured barrels of wine in his throat and pissed further than anyone. And Robin was a Drowned Priest convinced the Drowned God had healed him of all illness when in truth he looked like a corpse.

Asha didn't pause to think about her dear Father and brothers: they were worse than her Greyjoy uncles.

"Harras told me you had started translating _Mysteries of the Depths_."

"He did? Good, good. The book is extremely fascinating...all these ancients map of Ibben and the ancient constructions they found..."

The gaze of the Ironborn Lord was about to plunge into said book when by a monumental effort of will Lord Rodrik stopped his eye wandering, put a silver bookmark between the pages and closed the hundreds-page Ibbenese writings with a loud thump.

"But you haven't summoned me to speak about your wish to learn Ibbenese."

"Indeed not." Rodrik huffed powerfully in his typical fashion when he was about to tell someone very bad news. "Devrik has sent a bird from Pyke. He has discovered the reason your father went away."

Asha felt the dread rising in her stomach. Devrik Harlaw was Rodrik's second son and by far the most reasonable of the two. Unlike his eldest brother Quellon, he had always treated Asha like a friendly sibling and not a sack of onions. Devrik had a lot of young men with him who had accepted her own crew and friends like Tris Botley or Baelor Blacktyde. And he could be trusted, reason why his father had used him as his agent in many occasions. Rodrik's son had departed a fortnight ago to see if he could unveil the mystery of the Lord Reaper's departure. At the moment of his landing he had already sent a first bird, telling Lordsport and the rest of the island were in the midst of a massive rearmament. Scores of new longships were constructed; hundreds of new axes, swords and shields were forged. There were rumours Great Wyk and Old Wyk Houses were following way. The Ironborn were preparing for war and it was not for an expedition on the Stepstones.

"And?"

"The Iron Fleet longships have dispersed all over the Sunset Sea to confuse the Lords of Westeros. In the mean time, your father went north to Frostshore for a meeting with Eddard Stark, Heir of the North."

Asha felt like she had received a cold shower in her neck. There were many reasons why the Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands would go visit the Heir of another Lord Paramount. For those who knew the ambition of her Lord Father, this was definitely not a good sign. And then there was the location. Frostshore was a middle-sized castle belonging to House Frostsource on the Stony Shore. For such a prestigious meeting between two powerful nobles, Barrowton would have been the ideal choice.

Unless secrecy was required.

Unless the Northerner and the Ironborn Lord didn't wish the rest of the greenlanders to hear of their talks.

Unless the main subject of the negotiations was high treason.

"He really wants to rebel, then." Internally Asha felt disgusted. While she had still lived at Pyke she knew how bloodthirsty and awful her brothers had been. And it was because Lord Balon Greyjoy had pushed them on this way.

"Yes, he does." Rodrik the Reader was harbouring a dark expression which was rare for him. "My captains have noticed plenty of new longships sailing south these last years and the friends I had at Pyke have all been dismissed from their positions in the Iron Fleet or the Council."

The Lord of Ten Towers caressed the heavy cover of _Mysteries of the Depths_ in an absented manner. "Summer is going to end and war is finally going to return to our shores."

"Can we win?" Asha demanded. Rodrik threw her a tone which was half-ironic, half disbelieving. "You always said we would lose alone against Westeros but if we have the North with us..."

Lord Rodrik Harlaw shrugged. "I don't know the number of men and warlocks the Starks can field but I don't think they can match the Tyrells or the Lannisters sword per sword, let alone the entire South."

"The North has the Neck and Moat Cailin to serve as shields."

"But the Iron Islands have no such defensive depth." The Master of Harlaw reminded her. "Our only defence is the wooden walls of the Iron Fleet and when the war will begin we won't be to replenish our losses."

The Reader shrugged again.

"I suppose we will know the truth soon enough. Balon must have signed his damned alliance with the direwolf now."

"And the terms?"

Asha abandoned her contemplation of the Ibbenese book on the desk to seize a fine Arbor bottle hidden behind _A World of Ice and Fire_ and poured the red nectar in two cups. She really needed a drink now, the climbing and the revelations had not been good for her head and she felt a headache coming. Handing the first cup to her uncle, she gulped largely in the second one.

"Oh, you will be married to Eddard Stark's eldest before the end of this year, don't worry."

The wine was spit out her mouth the moment after.

* * *

 **Waymar Royce 2**

"But in the name of Tzeentch I am going to reveal you the truth."

Waymar snickered at this affirmation and he wasn't the only one. Like a nightmare gone, the men gathered on the training ground were able to voice their opinion again. In the ranks of the prisoners, angry mutters were heard and several insults resumed. Who did this heretic think he was?

"The Seven are the truth!" Screamed a man on the right side of the group. A glance at him was all Waymar needed to see that the man had been a thief: he was lacking one hand and its replacement was a crude wood piece he must have carved himself. "You will burn in the Seven Hells heretic!"

"Oh?" Ralfor Darkshore looked especially unimpressed by this rhetoric. "It is quite an assertion to say 'the Seven are the truth', you know. Have they revealed to you what your destiny on the Wall will be? Have they answered your prayers? Have they given you back your missing hand?"

The dishevelled dark brown-haired man in his thirties did not answer. His eyes threw hateful looks, though it was not directed at anyone in particular. His sole valid hand was trembling, like he feared its loss.

"You are here to defend the realm of men from the threats of Beyond-the-Wall. Threats so terrifying the First Men judged good to build a seven hundred feet-tall Wall to contain them. The black brothers have defended the realm against those for millennia and now it's your turn."

"Wildlings..." Muttered someone behind him.

"Wildlings?" The Black Castellan bark was certainly not an exclamation of joy. "Wildlings are humans and therefore are not considered as real threats. They bleed just like us. Often they fight with us. You will meet many on the Gift trading and living their own lives. If Tzeentch and Nurgle have put any sense in your skulls, you will learn to call them the Free Folk or you will quickly miss a lot of teeth."

A new gust of wind made the assembled prisoners shiver and the great black cloak of the castellan made an excellent imitation of a gigantic bat. Waymar was hesitant to believe these words and to his side Sam and the other recruits were sharing troubled faces. The wildlings weren't their enemies? This was madness! Why did all the Crown constables and the enforcers speak about bloodthirsty cannibals then? Why were they so many tales of First Men and black brothers fighting the Kings Beyond the Wall? Why had the messengers of the Lord Commanders never mentioned them when they went at the Royal court or those of the Lords Paramount?

But the Master of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea had apparently anticipated these questions. From a barrack situated directly to face the Bay of Seals, a small group of black brothers came out, followed by a chariot of a model which seemed familiar but was partially recovered by a black drape. Since what was under it was not visible, Waymar watched the members of the Night's Watch. Only two out of eight wore black plate, the remaining ones were equipped with a sort of light armour that made him think about the archers his father kept in his service at Runestone. Nevertheless, all had runes with malevolent sorcery shining on the surface of their protections. Two had the same flame symbol Ralfor harboured on his plastron branded on their foreheads.

Waymar felt his heart beat faster and tried to be calm, breathe more regularly and not attract undue attention – well, more than he got to be one of the rare volunteers to the Night's Watch anyway. These were not the dirty scum playing with banned books he had seen in the Vale; these men were real sorcerers and black-hearted heretics. And whatever was under the black drape, they were clearly prudent and had their weapons ready to be drawn.

"Meet one of the many enemies the Watch has been fighting for centuries." The voice of the Black Castellan was as friendly as a winter storm. On his signal, one of the black brothers in plate let the drape fall down, revealing the large cage which had been solidly stowed on it. "Behold the enemy. Behold the beastman."

Gasps and shouts of horrors mounted from the Southerners group. Shamefully, Waymar knew his voice was among them.

What was in the cage could not be considered human. It was standing on two legs yes, but the similarities ended there. Where humans had foot, the beast had cloven hooves. There were claws at the end of the two 'hands'. Where a human would have his body covered by armour or common clothes, the thing had only a few trinkets and pieces of metal, thus its brown fur could be seen by everyone. To his consternation, a few decorations looked like human skulls. The head of the creature was those of a goat, horns and eyes, beard and wattle, but a goat which had the fangs of a predator and was looking at the gathered humans with an expression of sheer loathing.

 _The Seven save us_...

The monster brayed stridently and all the men having volunteered to join the Night's Watch put their hand on their ears. The thing, no the beastman was noisy and horrible. Waymar felt an impression of wrongness and hate plague the air. Like he was in the presence of a thing he had to kill at all costs. The wind turned and an atrocious smell came to his nostrils. The beastman was not only looking like a humanoid goat; it smelt like a diseased one. Worse, the monster widened the space between his furred legs, allowing him and the other humans a straight view on its genitals...

"We caught this gor scout three days ago in one of our traps." Continued the Night's Watch officer, his voice showing no fear or any kind of emotion towards the non-human creature. "Usually we kill it on the spot or sacrifice it to the True Gods but I knew a Black Ship was close. It was an opportunity to show you what sort of enemies you can find Beyond-the-Wall. The enemies our rangers are killing every day and protecting the human realms from."

None of the Reacher, Valemen, Crownlander or Stormlander were sniggering or laughing anymore. If anyone had taught them a tale about beastmen in a tavern of King's Landing or the usual place they came to drench their thirst after a hard day of crime and law-breaking, they would have mocked the bard or the itinerant traveller peddling such tales and likely denounced him to the next sept or local authority. But this time the monster was real and they could see it with their own eyes. Nothing the enforcers and the gaolers who had given them the choice between the black and death had mentioned that. Waymar in his mind was beginning to wonder what else the crewmen of the Black Ships had not mentioned.

"The only future for these beasts...is death. Rni'siri' tahab!"

Impossibly, a large blue orb appeared in Darkshore's right hand, and the Black Castellan then sent it with a casual move of the wrist in the chest of the beastman. The monster screamed in agony...before bursting in blue flames.

 _Sorcery_.

This was the only thought Waymar was able to utter as the sight of the horned creature rolling and screaming in the cage, braying to death and trying desperately to extinguish the unnatural flames. But it was useless. The cage and the chariot weren't affected by the flames, another impossibility according to the laws of nature the maesters taught the young scions of the Noble Houses. The beast was consuming itself, member by member, its fur and the musk impregnating it proving unable to stop the fires. The braying diminished in intensity, before ultimately stopping when the burned corpse hit the cage's bottom.

"Born from chaos, returned to chaos." Grumbled the Northerner.

He didn't add 'let this be a warning to all of you' but the two hundred and one Southern Westerosi listening to his words understood perfect the underlying threat. If they became a big problem, it would be them in the cage sharing the fate of the beastman.

"Brother Tor, show our new recruits the barracks where they will spend the night. Samwell Tarly and Waymar Royce, follow me."

The voice of command became even more imperious and the former prisoners who had been detained aboard the Black Spear turned and looked at the great man who had to be 'Brother Tor'. It was not a pleasing sight. Unlike the first black brothers they had seen, this one wasn't wearing black plate or the kind of light armour the Houses gave to their levies. No, the man was bare-chested. Waymar was aware this kind of weather might not be a hardship to the people who lived there...but still it was cold and there was no sun visible. The sky was covered with dark clouds and there were snowflakes in the distance. Walking without clothes in this condition was not madness but it was perilously close. If it hampered the black brother, he showed no sign it. Here again there were a lot of runes...but since the man had no armour the mysterious signs had been branded on his skin, forming a sort of skulled-themed figure. Tor was also massive, with arms and legs stronger than those of his own Lord Father. And he was grinning evilly.

"What are you waiting for by the axe of Khorne?" Barked the muscular man. "Move! Move or I will make you climb the Wall before the day is over!"

The black brother walked in the direction of Eastwatch and the thieves, rapists and murderers did not need another incitation to run after him. On the other side of the field, Castellan Darkshore – Royce regretted his ignorance of the Northern Houses, was his family influent or wealthy? – was examining Sam and he with a cold look before beginning its own progression to the Night's Watch fort. Waymar was easily able to keep pace, but the Tarly Heir was breathing so loudly one could have mistaken him for a boar. When they reached the gates, the fat-boned Reacher had stopped running and was now walking with difficulty several feet behind him.

Ralfor Darkshore did not appear frustrated by the slowness of one of his charges but then his visage didn't show his feelings. The sorcerer could have thought about sending back Sam to the Reach or using him as the sacrifice for one of his rituals, Waymar was ready to think the face he showed to the world would have been the same.

Once Sam had arrived, they did not join the rest of the recruits gathering in the space in front of the tunnels but started to climb a stair leading them to the upper levels of Eastwatch. It allowed him to see the interior of the bastion which was unlike any fort or citadel architecture he had seen in his life. In the Vale, the raids of the Mountain Clans had long forced the builders to conceive stone walls able to repulse the hardiest defenders. Eastwatch had not been thought that way. There were many open stairs going everywhere, the walls were too small and an attacking force which managed to breach the perimeter would have an excellent chance to win the day. The wood and the stones were carved with runes, some blue, some red, some green or pink. The more he watched, the more he was disappointed. House Royce by itself would be able to break these defences in less time it took to say it. On the other hand, the Wall was spectacular so close and the three great wooden elevators linking top and bottom were pleasant remembers of the great fortress of the Eyrie.

Another stair and their efforts came to an end. Ralfor opened a door decorated by quantities of blue runes. The interior could have been any other lord's quarter in the Seven Kingdoms...except the fact that instead of a carpet, the fur of a black feline was covering the ground. No, that wasn't all. There were stuffed heads of various creatures hanging on the walls, some of them recognisable as beastmen, others even more repulsing and completely unknown to Waymar.

The Reacher and the Valeman sat on comfortable armchairs with blue and gold decorations. In this, the objects were coloured like the better part of the study. For nearly two turn of hourglasses, the Black Castellan didn't speak, simply putting the parchment on his desk in a neat pile and activating at regulars a few minor lights around his head. After the death of the beastman by incineration the two highborn weren't able to interrupt him.

"It has been a long time since we had Southern volunteers coming of their own will on the Wall. Longer than my own tenure and I've commanded this fort for the last eight years."

"Is it going to cause problems, Lord?" The young man of Runestone knew his defiance showed in his voice, but he had travelled too far to renounce now.

"Lord. So polite." The shadow of a smile came to the Northerner's lips. "Southern titles are meaningless on the Wall. Forget your titles of lords and Ser, boy. They will do you no good here and the only Lord you must give your allegiance to is Jeor Mormont."

The Northerner sorcerer shadowed seemed to have a life of its own on the walls.

"And yes they will be problems. How long do you think one of the recruits you came with survive on the Wall?"

This was an excellent question, Waymar had to admit. Every smallfolk and noble knew a service sworn to the Night's Watch included an oath to serve until your death. But no one had ever spoken how much time

"Ten years?"

"The best of the lot? Maybe. But criminals of the South are useless for the wars against beastmen, skavens and the direst horrors of the Haunted Forrest. Many are lucky to last two or three moons. Some last less than that."

The third son of Lord Royce opened his mouth to ask the Castellan if this was a joke. A fierce glare and a new spark of magic made sure the question was never posed. On the other seat, Samwell Tarly was shivering from head to toe and was harbouring a green taint. For all their sake, Waymar hoped he wasn't going to vomit again.

"Volunteers from the Black Ships are to be sent at Castle Black and a few of the recruits will go with you. Lord Commander Mormont will judge if you are assets or liabilities for the Night's Watch. Your fate will be in his hands once you arrive there. Impress him and you will thrive. Do not..."

There was no need to finish the sentence.

"How many forts are inhabited?" Asked Sam, his voice still shaking but the scion of Horn Hill had found something interesting him.

"Seven."Answered the black commander. "Seven and a eighth one is being rebuilt as we speak. We will have it ready before winter comes."

"And how many-"

"More questions can wait tomorrow. There are more pressing matters at hand."

"More pressing matters?" Waymar did not enjoy the turn this conversation was moving on. Judging by his shivering, neither did Sam.

"Yes. The winds of magic may be weak in the South, but they are blowing strong in the North and the further you come closer to the Wall, the stronger they become. The Wall is a fantastic barrier against the non-humans and the wild magic of the Lands of Always Winter, but its capacity to filtrate and purify the magic can't be considered foolproof. We Northerners have installed thousands of wards and we have the benedictions of the True Gods to protect us. Our ancestors also have lived in conditions where the aether is strong for centuries."

"Let me guess. We have not any of those protections."

"You have neither." Confirmed Ralfor Darkshore. "The runes on your armour may look pretty, but the artisans who forged it had no idea what they were doing and no magic protections have been imbedded into the steel."

"What will happen to us?" Sam's voice was fearful and for what looked to be the ten thousandth time, Waymar Royce cursed the fact he was with such a cry-baby.

"You will change." Replied sinisterly the sorcerer. "If the Gods are merciful, mutations and the beastmen will kill you before the next year begins. If they aren't, you will join the ranks of the abominations, become a Spawn or bray for eternity in the Haunted Forrest."

Waymar recognised an ultimatum when there was one in front of him. He bit his lower lip...and then asked the dreadful question anyway.

"What can we do to escape this fate?"

"Forsake the Seven and devote yourself to one of the True Gods." The air grew heavier and a sort of...aura began to surround the Master of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. His voice took entirely different stones, whispers and thrilling encouragements arriving to their ears. "You will become like us...and enter a cycle of eternal war."


	3. The Shadows of King's Landing

**Chapter 3**

 **The Shadows of King's Landing**

 **Lord Steffon Baratheon 1**

The monumental storms of his lands had not managed to end him. He had survived the wrath of the Narrow Sea, the pirates of the Stepstones, the infinite arrogance of Lysene and Volantene nobles. Raising three sons of difficult temperaments had been difficult and caused him plenty of headaches.

Lord Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Hand of King Aerys II, did not know if he was going to survive King's Landing. He was old, too old really, and the capital was not a battlefield where his skills and his strategies were useful to begin with. On the Stepstones and all over the Dornish Marches, the enemy – Blackfyre or bandits – was to be fought with spear and swords. In the crowded streets of King's Landing, the weapons of choice were daggers, honeyed words, false promises and gold.

The greatest city of the Seven Kingdoms smelt awful and the Lord of Storm's End was not only speaking of the shit and the corpse odour which could be noticed a dozen leagues away. The court was full of ambitious nobles from the Twins to Sunspear and keeping the peace was too often far from their minds. The City Watch, the Guilds, the Alchemist, the Faith and the foreign merchant companies...they were all playing games...they all wanted to be at the top, grabbing gold, silver, knighthoods, titles and favours from the Royal House.

The Royal Council should have put an end to this, Steffon knew. As Hand of the King, he should have put King's Landing in order...but for this the ability to place his own supporters in the places of power would have been necessary. The firm support of the King would have been appreciated too. Steffon had neither.

The Royal Council – or 'the Old Council' as the smallfolk liked to whisper – had been firmly entrenched by the time Steffon had been named to replace Lord Tywin. Of course they had been replacements since the year 284 after Aegon's Conquest, but they had inherited the power bases of their predecessors. To be blunt, the Hand of the King trusted none of them. These men had all their own ambitions and patrons to satisfy, and what he had discovered in the last years made him wonder if the enemies ready to assault the Seven Kingdoms from outside were really that dangerous when one watched the snakes already inside the walls.

"...and Magister Turario of Myr emissary has delivered us the message a new tax is going to be added on our glass purchases in two fortnights. My little mice tell me this is a reaction to the newest skirmishes between Myr and Lys in the Disputed Lands..."

The unctuous tone of Lord Varys, Master of Whisperers, echoed in the suffocating room the Small Council met. The heads of the various Lords around the table nodded, resignedly. The trade wars between the quarrelsome daughters of Old Valyria were as frequent as they were unpredictable: they could last between days and decades and begin for the most futile reasons.

"Bah!" snarled disdainfully Lord Lucerys Velaryon. The silver hairs of the Commander of the Royal Fleet had long turned to white and if Steffon was feeling the weight of years, the Lord of Driftmark had an ill appearance. Several of his cousins were already advancing their own names to replace him. "The Myrish will pay more when their ships will pass the Gullet!"

This was a narrow-minded and petty view. But Steffon could affirm it was worthy of the man...and some of these dragons were undoubtedly going to find their way in many Driftmark captains' purses. How long would it last before the Myrish discovered this practise and augmented the price of lace or another commodity they were the only ones to sell was another matter, of course.

"Is it not a bit too hasty?" The voice of Owen Merryweather, Master of Coin, was not at all pleased. Not surprising, House Merryweather had spent a lot of gold dragons with the merchants of Oldtown to make sure they were preferential clients when they crossed the Narrow Sea. Plus several of his numerous children and grandchildren had married Essossi women and men. They were ties of blood and gold here. "Let me send a ship to Myr, the affair will be resolved before this year ends..."

Lord Velaryon and Lord Merryweather exchanged looks that had nothing friendly in them. One glance around the one hundred-year old carved table showed him the rest of the Council have no intention to intervene. But then the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands had grown quite used to it. As soon as there was a chance to talk to the King or improve their own standing, the councilmen were jumping and finding energy in a bottomless depth of indulgence and frivolities. The rest of the time, it was best not to count on them.

"Send you ship to Myr, my Lord." The Reach Lord beamed before the Hand of the King added: "By order of His Majesty Aerys Targaryen the Second of the Name, we will increase the fees a Myrish ship needs to cross the Gullet as long as this tax is put into effect and the glass-makers aren't willing to listen to reason."

This time it was the turn of Lucerys to smile in a predatory manner. Perhaps House Velaryon should have taken a shark to embroider on their banners?

"I will make sure this is promptly resolved, Lord Hand." assured him Owen Merryweather. By the Seven, Steffon really hated his obsequious attitude.

"Let's pass to the next order of the day." Inside, Steffon wondered how long this was going to end this endless council. The sun had long passed its zenith and there were still at least a dozen subjects to debate. The Baratheon patriarch longed to go back to his loving wife but it looked it wasn't going to happen any time soon. "The accusations of heresy have tripled these last three fortnights. Commander Hayford, what have your men found in the raided houses?"

This time even the ageing Master of Laws Symond Staunton and the venerable Grandmaester Pycelle did their best not to look half-asleep. Prince Targaryen stopped taking notes and raised his head from the voluminous book he was absently turning the pages of. Most Devout Luceon, the Master of Faith, was on the edge of cheering as the reason of his presence was spoken. As for Lord Warne Hayford, commander of the Goldcloaks and the defence of King's Landing, he showed a very uneasy face.

"My Lord Hand, my men have not found anything worthwhile..."

"You mean the scum you have in your ranks were busier filling their pockets with jewellery and stealing their possessions than preventing the heretics escape in all impunity." corrected the Most Devout with an expression which sounded very happy indeed. It did not please the Hand of the King. Already the presence of a septon at their table had been a concession of their monarch five years ago when he had wanted to appease his conscience. One example among many how difficult it was to handle the rightful Master of the Iron Throne.

It would have been somewhat difficult to make sure a 'normal' septon had no ideas above his head. But the representative the High Septon – also known as the 'Bellyfull One' – had chosen was Most Devout Luceon, born Luceon Frey. And the fifth son of Lord Walder and a Swann Lady was not a priest Lord Steffon liked meeting every day. Seeing this man in silver robes and a crystal circlet atop of his head, the eldest Baratheon wondered what had happened to the founding principles of the Seven. Luceon used shamelessly his influence to threaten merchants, guild members and smallfolk alike. There were rumours the vows of celibacy were discarded every night in his bed. Several weasel faces had been noticed in more than one case coming from the Twins and assisting the 'pious septon' in his holy duties of beating people refusing to pay the religious tithes.

It made his last remark all the more hypocrite of course. Steffon was ready to bet the member of the Brave Sons that Luceon had ordered to accompany the Goldcloaks had not been the last to participate in the pillages.

"I reiterate my question, my Lords." All around the table, the councillors knew the answer but this was how the game was played and Hayford became redder. "Have your men found anything to prove the men, women and children were heretics like you pretend?"

"Well, they fled!" The expression of the Lord Commander of the City's Watch was not showing a sign of dishonesty. For the ten thousandth time, the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands knew Warne Hayford was the wrong man for the job. But his family ties with Houses Hayford, Stokeworth and Wayn made his removal impossible.

This time even the stone-faced Barristan Selmy guarding the door snickered. When people were woken up in the middle of the night because downstairs the Goldcloaks were busy thrashing your tables, chairs and the rest of the furniture while screaming they were going to burn the heretics, the accused were not going to stay a few turn of hourglasses for the executioner to arrive.

"This was not the point of the Lord Hand, Warne." Symond Staunton words were slow and coughed more than once. "Lord Steffon wants to know if you have found proof they were worshipping demons, reading heretical books or doing anything heretics are supposed to do."

"We found nothing." The admission was uttered in a murmur, head fixing the few papers on the table like they represented the solution to all problems.

"I'm sure the King will not be pleased when I will announce him this piece of information." The weasel eyes of the Most Devout however were looking deeply satisfied. Lord Lucerys Velaryon and Lord Owen Merryweather – and Steffon supposed, he too – were expressing diverse expressions of rancour. They were the Lords of the Royal Council, their titles were granting them great powers...but since the deterioration of the King's health five years ago, the Lord and Master they had sworn themselves was surrounded at every hour of the day and night by septons and septas chanting holy verses of the _Seven-Pointed Star_. Many times King Aerys had refused to see them in the last months. But for Most Devout like Luceon, Raynard and Torbert? His door was always opened. "This is a monumental failure in your duty to protect the Faithful from the heretics' temptations, is it not?"

At the sight of this pompous idiot smiling, the Hand of the King regretted he had not his faithful sword to his side. One strike, and they would be rid of Luceon...on the other hand the Faith would no doubt recruit a cretin even less intelligent and principled than him to fill the vacant seat.

"This had best not be an attempt to revoke Maegor's Edict." Owen Merryweather replied with a gesture of hands betraying his annoyance. "Besides the Brave Sons and all the Faithful, we have hired and trained thousands of men-at-arms to find the heretical cults across the Seven Kingdoms. Each of the commanders and their senior aides were checked by the High Septon and the Most Devout. If you have no confidence in these brave men, perhaps you should have spoken against them while you had the chance."

Most Devout Luceon bared his teeth at the Lord of Longtable accusations.

"The problem is not with the men dedicated to the persecution of heresy...though some could use more training and sermons to impress them how important it is to be vigilant against the corruption brought by demons and their minions." The favourite of the High Septon paused to regain his breath. "No, the greatest problem is that more heretics are hunted and arrested every year because we do not burn the heresy at its roots! For every heretic who burn at the stake, there are three others waiting to take its place!"

The Master of Coin had been wrong. This was not an attempt to reform the Faith Militant after all –though many of his agents had affirmed the Brave Sons carried metal under their cloaks. No, it was the second issue they were whispering in the ears of the dying Aerys.

"We must strike the monster in the heart and destroy the heresy at its core!" The septon was truly a mediocre preacher for such a high-ranked figure of the Faith. The words flowed in an erratic manner and the sentences gave the impression they had been learned in all haste. Luceon himself was nearly spitting and stuttering in his declaration.

"You speak of a War of Faith." Varys jovial face was courtesy itself, but in a few years Steffon had learned that the minor raise of the left eyebrow only occurred when a particular stupid affirmation had just been uttered.

"Yes!" bellowed Luceon, grabbing the bait with both hands. "How long are we going to tolerate these heretics north of the Neck? How long Faithful men and women are going to fear walking in the streets because these damned souls are free to poison our lands and our souls?"

The Stormlands Lord rolled his eyes. The threat of heretics and the like had been quite often screamed by the Faith since Northerners warriors had come fighting the Dance of the Dragons a century and a half ago. But for all these denunciations, the apocalypse they had prophesied and the coming of a demon invasion were delayed decades after decades. He wasn't the only one to have such feelings. Lucerys Velaryon coughed in polite disagreement and Owen Merryweather yawned.

When it came down to it, Steffon was sure the smallfolk were more frightened by the possibility of the constables storming your house and arresting you for heresy than they were of the heretics themselves. Counting the Iron Islands and the North together, there were certainly less than five hundred men and women of these two kingdoms at any given time travelling through Westeros and it included the crew of the Black Ships on the western and the eastern coasts.

"A war against the North would be a long and costly endeavour," affirmed Pycelle, passing his hand in his long white beard. "Despite numerous crusades in the past, the Southern Kingdoms have never been able to storm Moat Cailin."

"We would need to bring all of our fleets to secure a harbour," growled the Master of Ships. "And supplying it if we're not in summer would be nearly impossible. Northern seas are treacherous, cold as hell and wracked by storms that no kingdoms save the Stormlands ever see."

The last comment was pronounced with a little smile in his direction, and Steffon returned it with one of his own.

"Declaring war to a kingdom when no oath has been broken..." The musical voice of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was melancholic and sorrowful, attracting the council's eyes to the right of the empty royal seat. "The word of the Iron Throne must be as strong as steel." Purple eyes fixed the assembly and for an instant Steffon forgot the effeminate Prince was not a warrior and was constantly in his books of prophecy and customs.

"So you will let the treachery root and fester? Cowards!" The violence of the words, the place where the Most Devout had chosen to speak and the light in his eyes...Steffon felt something really unpleasant when he swallowed. Had Luceon and his followers managed to convince their King of such a folly?

"This is not a question of cowardice, Most Devout." Every councillor watched the Bold Knight standing guard now. It was so rare for him to speak in public like this that a majority were ignoring his presence when it came to the matters of governance. "The North is defended by terrible warriors and the ravens of the Citadel are telling us summer is coming to an end."

The last affirmation was pronounced when looking at Pycelle, who thoughtfully nodded to confirm.

"Only a madman would attack in these conditions," approved Lord Symond Staunton. "Mustering our banners to cross the Neck would take moons and by then it would already be autumn..."

"And it would prevent thousands of smallfolk from harvesting their fields a last time." Merryweather was worried at the prospect of so many income lost, it was evident. "A long summer is always followed by a long winter, as the proverb says."

And this summer had been the longest known to man, Steffon mused. They were three moons away from the end of the year 300 after Aegon's Conquest...the last winter had been in 290 so they had had the next best thing near a decade of summer. Really, they had better hope the winter would not last half as long...

"I see the Lords of the Council are unwilling to shed blood in service of the Faith!" The Frey Most Devout rose from his chair so violently the two pillows under his large backside fell to the ground. "But you will see, oh yes you will see..."

And on these last threatening words the mumbling weasel stormed out of the Council room.

"I don't like this, my Lord Hand," told the Lord of Longtable after the sounds of furious footsteps on the carpets were no longer heard. "To challenge us like we were under his orders..."

Steffon did not reply to the Master of Coin. Like the principal members of the Council, he was evaluating the possibility of Luceon convincing the King that a War of Faith against the North was necessary. Five years ago, his cousin would have said no. But the illness and age were more pressing and his liege may not have all his wits anymore...moreover Aerys had been sometimes prone to strange ideas in his young years and it had taken a lot of effort from the Lord of Casterly Rock himself to ignore them.

That said the Lords Paramounts were not going to watch this folly without saying anything. And in definitive, it would be them Luceon and his master had to convince. To face the monsters the Starks kept in chains, a few thousand sellswords and the Brave Sons were too green and inexperienced. If the High Septon tried to storm Moat Cailin against the entire might of the North with four thousand spears, the War of Faith would die on its own.

"Continue your investigations, Commander." He ordered to Warne Hayford. "But the discipline of your Goldcloaks must hold. I don't want to hear about pillaging and rioting when we have nothing to accuse the heretics with!"

"Of course, my Lord Hand." The Lord Commander of the City Watch looked suitably chastened and Steffon Baratheon did not pursue the issue further. "Now what is the next order of the day?"

"Prince Oberyn Martell urges the King to legitimise his bastards."

"Refused." Year after year, the Red Viper continued his efforts to give the Martell name to the uncountable number of snakes he sired. And year after year, the Small Council was content to deny him the legitimisations. The Red Viper was free to bed every unmarried woman in Dorne but the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms did not approve the life of depravation he was living. "Next order."

"The great tourney for the name day of Aegon." Prince Rhaegar had at last closed his books. "Since it is the end of summer, we should make it a memorable event..."

* * *

 **Bronn 1**

The night was dark, dirty smelling and if he had the choice, Bronn would not be outside at this hour. The streets of King's Landing were dangerous. The sellsword had visited the five great cities of Westeros in the many contracts he had taken for one master or another, and the capital of the Seven Kingdoms was the one where you were the least safe.

Gulltown was not exactly secure and the Grafton men loved taking the gold dragons everywhere they could find them, but they kept the peace. Oldtown and its city watch were competent and dedicated to protect the hundreds of merchants travelling to the High Tower. At Lannisport, breaking the laws of the Lannisters signified a lengthy stay in sunless mines or a public execution. And at White Harbor...Bronn shivered. Every man, woman and child was warned before setting a foot on Northern soil that not respecting the laws of House Manderly would get you a prime place on Slaanesh's altar.

But at King's Landing, there were no such incentives to be prudent for criminals, murderers and the like. The Goldcloaks were neither competent nor incorruptible. Many officers were paid and repaid by rival gangs to eliminate each other. Merchants and tavern keepers were brutalised in front of the Goldcloaks without one raising his sword to defend the innocent. The more he watched of this stinking hellhole which the arrogance of proclaiming itself a city, the more Bronn was sure being a sellsword was the right choice. Sure, it was not something popular but it paid and he was not pretending to be something he wasn't. If he killed a man, it was because someone had paid him. He would not proclaim he had done it to keep the King's peace.

"Bronn, the men are ready." said Alaric behind him. The grizzled veteran from the Disputed Lands was not smiling as the rest of the sellswords marched in the square. Walking in the streets of King's Landing at night with a company of sellswords was not likely to end with your throat slit and your naked corpse thrown in the excrement-filled gutters. Walking in the streets of Fleabottom at night however...

"Let's finish this mummery and complete the contract." The two scores of swordsmen surrounding him were all mercenaries having fought several times in cities or villages. Thus there were not the murderous acclamations or the battle-cries of green youngsters. They nodded and followed his steps into the night.

Despite the last hour, the great street going from the Gate of the Gods to the Guild of the Alchemists was far from empty. King's Landing never slept: a capital of over half a million needed workers and food like a sellsword needed women, wine and war. There were a lot of torches in this avenue, and the fighters kept hoods and large cloaks over their armours. Once they had turned towards the Iron Gate, the disguises were removed and given to one of the men who served as rear-guard. Bronn took third position in the vanguard while Alaric stayed in the middle.

Steps after steps, the sellswords left the proper houses of the merchants and their rich allies to enter the putrid alleys of Fleabottom. The sellswords wanted discretion but here there was no choice but to light two torches, one for each extremity of their formation. The odour was nauseating, the slums were covered in hovels of debatable solidity and Bronn didn't need the advice of his fellow sellswords to know every move they made was watched by the local hungry eyes. This was a part of the city where the laws of the ambitious nobles were never enforced and where corpses disappeared forever.

"Bronn, there are a lot of torches ahead." The almost angelic voice came from Matthos, a middle-aged archer of the Marches who had recently arrived to King's Landing. According to the principal interested, his eyes were better than those of eagles and falcons – Bronn and the rest of King's Landing had their doubts. For the moment however he had proven reliable and he was leading the formation this night.

"How many are 'a lot'?" In Fleabottom where the inhabitants were poor as dirt and their pale eyes were forced to live in the perpetual shadows of the Dragonpit and the Red Keep, one or two torches were far above the norm and often attracted undesirable attention.

"Four scores, maybe five." A few hisses were made at this revelation. As the mercenaries one by one reached the point where Matthos had noticed the lights, everyone could see the Stormlander was right. There were a lot of torches in Fleabottom tonight. They were not using the same tortuous paths the sellswords were taking, but Bronn hadn't survived so long by believing in coincidences. Their patron ordered them to earn the gold tonight and a large group had the same idea? Knowing most of the nobles and the smallfolk in this smelly city couldn't count on their fingers without preparation, it was unlikely.

"What do we do, Captain?"

"We advance towards the house we're supposed to storm without being seen." It would not do at all to make a report the next morning to their employer that they had cowardly fled at the first moment of trouble. "We observe. If it is the Goldcloaks, we wait until they're gone."

There were a few nods of approval. Old sellswords did not age without learning a few tricks. They could take the men of the City Watch – to be fair a band of idiots armed with a few pitchforks could defeat these brutes with sufficient numbers – but discretion was a treasure in itself. Kill a bandit and the Lords were ready to pay you; kill a Goldcloak and his patrons gave you the choice between the axe, a desolate sept to rebuild with your bare hands and a glacial trip to the frozen wastes of the North.

"They're here for the same thing we are, no?" asked one of the Riverlanders, his heavy 'labourer' accent betraying him.

"Probably," admitted Bronn. "The Goldcloaks never come here unless they have orders. There is no gold and silver to take here."

This truth was punctuated with several of the men spitting on the ground to signify all the good they thought of the defenders of King's Landing. Each of these warriors could fight his way in a real battle. The fancy gold cloaks and muddy armours of the City Watch were trained to intimidate the foreigners, thieves and rob blind the small-time shops.

And the distance closed between the vanguard led by Matthos and the other group, it was quite easy to discover the Goldcloaks were indeed forming the core of this group. There were maybe one or two men looking like Priests in the lot, plus a few sellswords looking like they had just gone out of a sack. Miracle of miracle, the man commanding them was none other than Commander Slynt, the Butcher of the Iron Gate.

"They have come for our prey," remarked in a whisper Alaric. The sellswords had stopped maybe fifty or sixty feet away from the Goldcloaks, but the nightmarish racket they made was such he could have screamed all the same.

"The prey has certainly escaped," reminded him Bronn in a conversational tone. "Do you hear their screams? Only a blind and deaf idiot would not have seen them coming!"

"I agree." A Reacher veteran exclaimed at the end of the group. "The heretics are long gone. This entire contract has been a waste of time."

"Someone has spoken too much." In the dark and the fading light of the torches, it was impossible to discover who had made the accusation but it stung nonetheless.

"We don't know this." Bronn spoke calmly, the last thing they needed was a settling with steel weapons while the Goldcloaks were mere feet away. Dim-witted Slynt's imbeciles may be, but even then were unlikely to miss a small battle in the middle of the night. "We don't know how our employer got the information and who he shared it with. We will talk again in the morning and if someone has spilled what he knew of the plan-"

The mumblings ceased nearly instantly. Two out of three men were not smart enough to know who their employer was, but the corpses of several comrades having failed in their duties showed the man holding the purse was iron-fisted and quick to get rid of soldiers not following his commands.

"Break this door! I want the skin of the heretics!" As usual, Janos Slynt was proving his reputation was truly deserved. The Commander was shouting in the middle of Fleabottom when night had fallen many turn of hourglasses ago. One had to wonder how this moron had managed to rise to his present position.

The Goldcloaks used an improvised ram to break the ancient wood of what had been one century ago an old casern and now had been surrounded and assimilated by the surrounding hovels. One strike succeeded the other and the wood collapsed. The brutes of the City Watch tried to imitate the roars or howls of diverse predators, but the final result sounded more like a herd of goats in Bronn's opinion.

"For our good King Aerys! Seize these heretics!" screamed Slynt.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" The Goldcloaks stopped their charge well before the entrance they had just shattered as guttural voices covered their battle-cries. No doubt they had not expected to confront real heretics. After all the last moons they had been really successful beating and imprisoning their rivals under various heresy accusations, weren't they?

The surprise effect was thus total when a bare-chested man rushed out of the door and delivered a series of terrible blows with his axe. The watchmen fell like lambs to the slaughter. A sort of red light surrounded the newcomer, and more like him were coming behind.

Bronn drew his sword from his scabbard. To the right and left, the sellswords imitated his gesture. But the experienced fighter had not survived an entire campaign in service of Myr by being careless.

"Crossbows and bows first."

He had just finished pronouncing these words that half a score of arrows were in the air. Three struck the bare-chested fanatic in the chest and the head, killing him instantly and proving that heretical sorcery was not good enough to replace proper armour. The remaining projectiles wounded his followers and disorganised their rampage. Heartbeats later, the Goldcloaks finally recovered what was left of their supposed courage and began to use their large superiority –they still had three scores left after leaving a small pile of headless corpses in the gutter.

One by one, the madmen fell...before the last red-robed figure cackled madly like the villain of a tale and threw his torch into their lair.

"FIRE AND BLOOD FOR KHORNE!" These were his last words before three swords tore in his flesh. His demise was too late alas. Just as the body fell atop the slain Goldcloaks, the place which had been used by the cultists to pledge themselves to the Blood God went up in green flames.

"WILDFIRE! WILDFIRE!"

This was enough for Slynt and his survivors, who promptly ran away from the soaring inferno.

"Damn it!" One of the men next to him shouted. "We need to tear down some of these houses or all Fleabottom is going to burn!"

Bronn grimaced but couldn't fault the logic. Wildfire was one of the most dangerous substances in the world and the Seven only knew how many casks of it they had managed to steal from the Alchemists. Worse, all evidence was going to be purged by the inferno...no parchment trail, bloody altars or living cultists left to interrogate the Valyrian artefacts they had stolen.

"Lord Tywin is not going to be pleased..."

* * *

 **Varys 1**

The agony screams of the prisoner resonated lengthily in the torture room. Evidently, whatever demonic pact he had passed, whatever price he had demanded for his damned soul, resistance to pain had not been part of it.

Varys did his best not to look as sick as he felt inside his mind. The Master of Whisperers truly hated watching a man suffer like this...and not only because he would take the prisoner's place if his true loyalties were ever discovered. No, these tortures were just cruel and the proof men and women really didn't need Gods and Demons to do evil acts.

Except the one where the screams were coming from, the other cells were empty. This level had been thought with only torture in mind and one did not keep prisoners long here. Behind the bars, there were dozens of cutting objects a prisoner could use to strike a guard, break the doors or end his life.

If the spymaster had wanted to advance arguments against these horrific actions, the inefficiency of the entire procedure would have figured in first and second place of his declaration. Pain did not convince a believer to talk. In the last hours, the brutes reigning over the Red Keep dungeons had beaten the heretic, broken his fingers, burned him with a white-hot brand whose extremity for a strange reason was in the shape of a seven-pointed star, pulled out violently half of his teeth...the list was gruesome and Varys had really no wish to remember it in the privacy of his mind.

And yet the Khornate cultist wasn't spilling his secrets, assuming he knew something of value in the first place. It had been nearly two nights and one day since Commander Slynt's brave descent in Fleabottom. The rest of the cult – the Messengers of the Bloody Hand they called themselves – were either dead or had long disappeared in the mass of smallfolk arriving and living King's Landing each day.

"They aren't getting answers." Varys turned his head to see the man he was waiting for had arrived. In the unpleasant atmosphere of these cells, the powerful figure of Ser Jacelyn Bywater was reassuring and standing true. What a pity there weren't more men of his honour and skill serving in the Goldcloaks...there really was little satisfaction working against the Iron Throne when it was served by such mediocre opponents.

"No, Commander." The eunuch whispered, but the volume of the screams was such he could have played an instrument of music and no one would have cared. "The prisoner we were fortunate to capture does not speak...and if the cultists of the Bloody Hand had not used wildfire we would never have caught him in the first place." In hindsight, the Essossi spymaster wasn't at all surprised a dumb apprentice of the Alchemists would succumb to the lure of Demons and Chaos. These men were already insane and mad from all the substances they breathed every day. Arresting them would be a favour to the realm...but Lord Symond Staunton would never give the order.

The Alchemists were the only Westerosi order for the time being to have mastered the devastating recipe of gunpowder. Without them, the first muskets and cannons produced by the Crown in all its history would be useless tubes of metal.

"Six and thirty men of Slynt are dead. Ten more are seriously wounded." The Ironhand was not showing the face of an amused man. "The Faith is screaming murder at the idea we let heretics live next to them for so long. The wildfire torched twenty hovels before the improvised squads stopped its progression. The Watch need the culprits' hideout locations, the names of their supporters, their numbers... everything."

It was good that Varys had a hood covering most of his head – the dungeons of the Red Keep were quite dirty – because he did not think his annoyance was dissimulated behind his genial persona. Everyone in this damned city wanted to know everything. How typical. Contrary to one might believe, Varys had no unnatural powers and was a mortal man. Even if he had an agent of his at every street's corner – and he did not – his duties in and out the capital were such he couldn't run to them every time a disaster happened and interrogate them from dawn to dusk.

There wasn't simply time to do everything in a single day...not when half of the councillors were frequenting whorehouses, going hunting and other less than useful activities for the good ruling of the kingdom.

"I need time, gold and skilled little mice, Ser Jacelyn." In reality the eunuch was not sure anything but a full-blown sack of the city would reveal all the problems which were crawling in the shadows of the city. After all if he, a Blackfyre loyalist, could dupe the King, the Council and the Great Lords for two decades concerning his loyalties, then surely other could.

King's Landing was an ugly and dirty nest, where treason, corruption, heresy and betrayal prospered the moment you seeded them. There was no magical cure to save the capital.

"I have no time to spare anymore. Lord Commander Hayford wants the matter settled before Prince Aegon's Tourney."

Varys chuckled internally. Many cults he had dismantled in his tenure as Master of Whisperers were older than him, a couple were older than the elderly King and he had his suspicions several of the enemies he was after had been at it before the Blackfyre Rebellions. To dismantle and arrest these conspirators before the end of the year was a dream, nothing more. The Goldcloaks and the entire city were filled with spies and traitors as a consequence if the Council really wanted to track the heretics, it would have to bring an army from the Riverlands or the Stormlands and purge the merchants, the Goldcloaks, the guilds and the nauseating bargains nobody tried to stop.

The odds of this happening before the young Prince tourney were not exactly good. A new thunder of chains and pain screams echoed in the gloomy torture cells.

"Who is your master? Speak dog!"

Truly the Crown had to find another interrogator after this lack of answers. But if there was a justice, Slynt and the so noble Commanders of the City Watch would be already freezing in the hull of a Black Ship, not commanding men and stealing the gold of innocent shopkeepers and workers.

"Who do you serve? Where are your heretical friends?"

This was the eighth time the question had been posed in this manner. But this time, it was different. The prisoner didn't try to spit at his tormentors or deliver them a litany of insults.

"Archaon!" gasped his victim in a desperate breath. Both Jacelyn and Varys winced under the power of the name. In the cell, the torturers had their members shivering. "For the Blood God I serve Archaon, Lord of the End of Times!"

The head of the heretic slammed against the wood and his neck appeared to convulse in an unnatural manner. Red blood poured out of his mouth, the eyes rolled and his members tensed with such a frightening intensity that the eunuch wondered for a heartbeat or two if the chains were going to hold. Then without warning the bloody head slammed again against the wood and didn't move anymore.

"I've never heard of a heretic named Archaon." Commented the Goldcloak Commander once it was confirmed the heretic was dead and the brutes dragged his corpse out of the cell.

"Neither have I." admitted honestly Varys. "Certainly a new heretic warlord from the Northern frozen wastes." But as he uttered his words, the Blackfyre agent knew this was feeling wrong. No man or woman, not the Manderlys, not the Boltons, not the Umbers and certainly not the Starks had ever tried to be called by this title. Lord of the End of Times...truly a title to conjure fear and despair.

* * *

 **Grandmaster Hallyne 1**

It had cost him many turns of hourglasses, uncountable days bowing in front of the Councillors and the guild masters, thousands of gold dragons and much of his old voice, but the Grandmaster of the Alchemist Guild had to admit the new gunpowder-arsenal was worth it.

To begin with, it was fairly large, three times the size their Guild – which was two leagues east of his current location - and definitely less cramped. The number of accidents had decreased many times since the clumsy apprentices had the space to not put their arm or their leg in the sulphur and saltpetre of their neighbour.

"The next charcoal arrival will be a day late, Grandmaster." Said one of the many youngsters he had hired last year in a worried tone. But Hallyne reassured him instantly by saying they had nine days of reserve and could tolerate this delay – the merchant would have still to pay for his late delivery.

As his subordinate marched away with new parchments to deliver, the Head of the Alchemist Guild contemplated the changes he had desired. Where before they had hidden like moles under the ground, the great warehouses they used these days for the gunpowder were well-lighted and could be cleaned easily. There were still accidents of course, but less than when they had been producing wildfire.

The Guild was becoming more popular too. Four and thirty years ago when he had entered the Guild, the Wisdoms thought themselves lucky if five youngsters came on the day of the solstice and paid the gold tuition to become apprentices. This year alone they had taken a score of young boys and a score of young girls – and they had accepted only the smartest and most curious applicants.

Yes, the Guild was entering into a new era, one of science and prosperity where they weren't forced to hide in the darkness like rats. With the power of gunpowder, the Alchemists were going to change the world. Already one of three of their commands of the black substance came from House Lannister, who had found the explosions were astoundingly useful for the exploitation of the Westerlands mines.

"Everything is well?"

"Everything is well, Grandmaster," declared tranquilly Wisdom Horton Lurater. "We have no accidents today and the last order for Lannisport will be ended before dusk." There was a small hesitation before the senior Alchemist continued. "A messenger of the court came to see if we had more leads concerning the wildfire thievery but I managed to send him away."

Hallyne grimaced and his fellow Wisdom imitated him. At a time their fortunes were on the rise and gunpowder made the Alchemists a well-respected force in the Crownlands, their past decided to haunt them back.

A young apprentice who had never managed to learn the correct procedures in order to handle gunpowder had been put in remedial training at the Guild. It was not unusual at times...but the young idiot had decided to sell ten jars of the most recent wildfire reserves for a hundred dragons. In a way, heretic or not, this traitor had been quite lucky the Watch had found him first. There was only one punishment for stealing Guild secrets and it was to perish by the green substance.

"Good, good. On my request the other wildfire vaults have been examined and counted. Save the ten jars used in Fleabottom, there is no wildfire missing." The Grandmaster gritted his teeth before continuing. "Much as I don't want to admit it, it is partly my fault. Since Lord Rossart's success in reinventing our own recipe of the Braavosi powder, we have diverted many of our vault-guardians away from the wildfire production and keeping. We were lax, Horton."

"You couldn't know..."

"I should have." Hallyne sighed. "Blame will get us nowhere and the affair is in the hands of the Crown now." He didn't add that their highborn masters were going to act in unproductive ways: that was a given from the start. But as long as the royal patronage didn't end, the Alchemist Guild would be able to withstand the storm. In the mean time, it was time to go back to work.

"How fares the work on the new Conqueror cannons?"

Once the Guild had proven they were able to make gunpowder like the Essossi, the demand for the famous siege engines had not been long in coming. The accidents on this project had become legends. The Alchemists were not metal-workers, they never had been. Hallyne had gone to the Guild of Smiths and signed several agreements with them, but making their own fire-weapons was slow and difficult. They had managed to acquire Braavosi muskets; the attempts to obtain functional cannons had failed times and times again. Plus the Smith apprentices they were assigned were not the most brilliant young men of the Seven Kingdoms, if you caught his meaning.

Still, they were Alchemists and they had persevered – though the gold of the Princesses and Lord Lannister had proven a god-sent to continue their experiments as several warehouses had been blown apart each fortnight. The result was the Conqueror cannon: ugly, massive and slow-firing, but able to send regularly solid shots at a fortress without bursting apart and killing half of its crew.

"Slowly but surely." answered his interlocutor. "We should have thirty of them ready before year's end."

The Grandmaster passed a hand in his beard. It should be enough to satisfy their employers...barely. After all, whereas thirty seemed an impressive number, these were the first thirty Westerosi-made siege guns...and there were a lot of potential buyers despite the issues many lords and knights had with gunpowder weapons.

"Do we need more apprentices?"

"No, not to my knowledge." The other Wisdom grimaced. "We spent so much time training the newcomers that I dread to disrupt the current production. We will need to train more...eventually. But we are not at war and the weather is good. I would prefer the young men are forging every cannon we can...we always can train more when the cold days will be upon us."

Hallyne took a moment or two to see what Lurater had said...he found no fault with these priorities. Of course, he would ask the other Wisdoms and senior Alchemists but he didn't think the answers would be too different.

Casks of sulphur and saltpetre were transported to the other extremity of the warehouse and the work cadence augmented as more and more gunpowder was created in the name of science.

"Good, good. Now let's discuss the fireworks we are going to prepare for the grand tourney..."

* * *

 **Princess Rhaenys Targaryen 1**

When one looked at the small training field, it was possible to believe the duel of the century was taking place here. Between the noble ladies, the knights in armour, the servants, the warriors and about half of the court, there was certainly an audience numerous enough to justify it. There were large banners of the red dragon everywhere, no less than three bards played appropriate martial songs and cheers mounted every time an audacious strike was made.

Looking at the two opponents was as a result a bit disappointing. On the right, the famous Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning and Hero of the smallfolk, was standing helmetless and in training armour far lighter than the white plate he wore when standing to the sides of the King. The Kingsguard did his best to hide it, but he was looking positively bored and did not appear to sweat at all, despite the warmth of the early evening.

On the left was her brother Aegon, who was definitely red, sweating and out of breath. His silver hairs were totally dishevelled. From head to toe his skin and his clothes were showing evidence his training opponent had sent him multiple times on the ground. Where Arthur Dayne stood like a perfect statue, her little brother was raising his sword with difficulty and had adopted a defensive posture. His beautiful violet eyes were showing defiance and anger, and if it was possible to kill by glaring, maybe Ser Arthur Dayne would have been defeated...but sadly for him, Aegon had always refused to study sorcery and the powers their dragon blood gave them. Therefore the best swordsman of the Kingsguard was quite unaffected by the facial expressions of Rhaegar's Heir.

Pushing a loud battle-cry, Aegon charged at Dayne before launching a series of strike at the level of the Sword of the Morning's head. Arthur Dayne blocked each with incredible swiftness before his sword arm struck like the maw of a dragon. The hit was so fast Rhaenys didn't see all the details from her observation post at the top of the tower but her little brother was disarmed like a novice squire and a vigorous hit sent him colliding with the earth. The scores of men and women assisting to this one-sided training gasped in shock, not understanding what they had just seen.

"Our dear brother is doing rather...poorly today." The soft voice of Visenya was inches away from laughter. "Against Oswell Whent, he is usually doing much better."

Rhaenys turned her eyes away from the beating her brother received to look at her sister. With her brilliant violet eyes, her long silver hair and the revealing red gown she wore today, her little sister was a vision to tempt anyone including pious septons. Not that Rhaenys had much to complain about. Thanks to the pact her mother had made with Lady Lyanna, she had the violet eyes and the silver hairs too, though her skin was darker. On this warm summer day she had preferred to wear a light orange robe for her mother's land of Dorne.

"You mean Oswell Whent is letting him win one or twice per day." The two sisters chuckled at the idea. The Dark Bat for all his austere conduct was not a harsh trainer. It was whispered in court that Ser Oswell was fonder of encouragements than punishments when it came to the training of his charges. Judging by the stunned looks of Aegon after he was disarmed once more by Arthur Dayne, there had to be some measure of truth in these gossips.

"It must be hard for our poor brother." The feigned lamentation of Visenya did not fool her. "Years of sword training, thousands of sermons from the Faith that he is a great hero and he is unable to beat a poor Kingsguard."

The eldest of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's children nodded as they slowly walked away from their observation post and descended the stairs, taking great care to speak in low whispers. In the Red Keep, it was best to assume someone was always listening to your words. There were so many secret passages no mortal could honestly remember them all, servants and highborn were all paid by one master or another to follow each of their gestures and except your own blood, loyalties were far and few between.

"Yes, it must be hard. The High Septon intends to declare a War of Faith against all these dangerous heretics...and he isn't ready."

The set of purple eyes met each other and smiled in amusement. When they had been informed minor cultists and sorcerers were going to emerge from the shadows and create a bit of panic, they had been extremely sceptical. The Faith had many septons unable to recognise a trap even after they were given a detailed description of it, but surely even these corrupt fools would recognise an invasion of the kingdoms the Faith didn't control wasn't the answer.

To their credit, the old heads of the Small Council were resisting this insanity and several important lords had already sent ravens to support the Hand and his partisans. A War of Faith on an autumn year would be a dangerous folly and could only result in a lot of dead men...exactly as it had been planned. Now if only Aegon could realise this...

"The cupbearers I have in my service are all saying Lord Steffon Baratheon isn't happy either with our father or our brother."

Visenya sighed theatrically putting a hand above her heart in a pained fashion.

"Of course he is." The youngest of the Targaryen siblings sighed. "Cousin Steffon is an intelligent man...he doesn't understand the power of the True Gods but it is thanks to him the kingdom is well-ruled and enjoying peace. If he was the King, you would be married to Aegon or to Willas Tyrell and I would be betrothed to the son of another's Lord Paramount..."

"Aegon will never marry one of us." Rhaenys murmur was more disappointed than angry. Moon after moon, she had accepted the truth. No matter their Father wishes that they were to be the reincarnation of the three dragonlords having made possible the Conquest, there was a weak link in the chain and it was not Rhaenys or Visenya. "He listens far too much to this weasel calling itself Master of Faith and the septons accompanying him. He refuses to accept his Valyrian inheritance and the power we can wield. Our brother is content to accept a world without dragons and magic but stagnation, narrow-mindedness and the love of the Seven are acceptable in his poor head."

"We will have other potential suitors to warm our bed in a few moons," reminded her little sister. "Let Aegon have his Arryn bride...I don't think she will be of a great help when he will leave for the Riverlands."

A small laughter came to her lips. The idea of Aegon marrying someone was incredibly funny...would their brother try to recite the entire _Seven-Pointed Star_ every time he was going to his wife's bed?

"Recently he has quite become eager to march north and fight with this new Archaon warlord the Faith is so afraid of."

The eldest child of Princess Elia Martell made sure the lower hems of her orange robe were not dirtied by the long walk before turning her gaze to her so-innocent looking sister.

"You didn't."

The large smile on Visenya lovely visage was all the confirmation Rhaenys needed.

"I did. If our dear Prince wants to be a true hero, surely he needs an arch-enemy to defeat, no?"

Sometimes Rhaenys truly wondered who of the two of them had been born from Princess Elia Martell's womb. When she wanted, Visenya Targaryen could be a true viper.

"The dragons need three heads, sister." She said as they arrived to her quarters and began the long process of disrobing. The attires their servants had prepared on her bed were far simpler as the activity this evening would involve dagger and bows. "And Aegon is an easy target for an experienced Champion of the Gods like the ones the Starks can field."

"I know." Visenya grinned as she got rid of her superb robe and everything beneath it, visibly savouring the attention Rhaenys gave her. "This is why I've started to look for a replacement..."


	4. The Winds of Chaos

**Chapter 4**

 **The Winds of Chaos**

 **Marwyn the Mage 1**

For a city tens of thousands of Southerners cursed as one of the greatest bastion of evil in Westeros, White Harbor was looking strangely mundane from where he stood. The ship he was on the bridge of was still far from the shore, of course. But contrary to what these small-minded fools of the Citadel liked to pretend, he hadn't been forced to prostrate himself in front of a demon rising from the depths of the Shivering Sea. There had been no choir of sirens singing to rob him of his mental faculties and lead him to damnation. No sorcerer had appeared in the middle of a magical storm to massacre the crew of the _Tireless Lady_ , one of the Pentoshi carracks which were travelling from Lys to the Northern city twice a year. To be honest, during his journey from Oldtown to White Harbor he had been in danger a single time and it was when the guards of House Hightower had started to hunt him.

Once he had escaped their inquisitorial attentions, the difficulties had been almost non-existent. One of the sailors had been a spy and the former Archmaester had had to throw him overboard two days after their departure but apart from this the days had been devoid of danger. Summer was continuing its long reign, the winds had been two days out of three favourable and the captain and his officers had described the storms they had encountered as nothing but breezes.

The weather had slowly but surely become colder in the last days, however. The sun was shining but its warmth was not the one he had enjoyed when he was living in the Reach. Cloaks and leather clothes had become necessary, for the winds were powerful and made him shiver. No longer did the sailors tended to their duties bare-chested. The skies were not a pristine blue anymore. It was possible those were the first sings the Long Summer was going to end.

The _Tireless Lady_ speed was slowing down, as the wind was now against them and the shipmaster had to take into account all the other ships around them. It was clear White Harbor was no Oldtown when it came to the number of ships waiting for their hulls to be emptied or filled, but it had many fishermen, small galleys and carracks coming to sell or buy during summer.

Behind these quays and ship berths was the city itself. Built in grey and white stone, surrounded by a large wall which looked in good condition, the stronghold of House Manderly was imposing and well-defended. The towers and the ramparts were smaller than the massive outer works of King's Landing, but judging by the siege engines everywhere, the sworn swords of the North were vigilant and not the incompetent bunch of the capital. His specialty was magic, not war tactics, but Marwyn could guess trying to take this city would be anything but easy. There was a large tract of empty land between the walls and the harbour, meaning any assault from the sea which managed to defeat the warships mounting guard would be massacred by scorpions and ballista. Whoever had built and developed White Harbor in centuries past, they had had a sound mind.

He heard the whispers of the men as he walked tranquilly on the bridge, doing his best not to hamper their work.

"A good bed, a good meal..."

"Let's hope the taxes of last time have been removed..."

"You see this ship? It's the _Violet Spear_ of Braavos..."

"This girl had the biggest tits..."

The mage let a half-smile show on his visage. It was reassuring to know that no matter the destination, sailors were as predictable as they always were in other harbours. For himself he would not refuse an evening in pleasant company, but alas his purse was getting smaller and smaller as the days passed. He had stored gold, gemstones and several valuable things over the years in case he fell out of his favour –none of his three predecessors had resigned the title of Archmaester of Magic in what could be called a peaceful fashion – but the timing of the City Watch had been awful from his point of view. Contrary to the rumours, he did not like running naked in the streets...and he had had to disguise himself as an old woman to elude the multiplying patrols. Oh, he had more gold dragons, silver stags hidden at Oldtown and throughout the south...but his face was now one of a traitor and using sorcery tended to signal his presence to his hunters. For all their self-professed hatred of magic, the Faith dogs had minor orders of Art-gifted men and women under their command to track the 'heretics'.

His current clothes reflected the difficult times he was now facing. He was wearing a pointed red hat on his head and the piece of cloth had seen better days. The same could be said with the red cloak he wore and the seedy red garments under it. Marwyn shrugged. He was alive and it was the main objective achieved. As long as there was life in him, he could climb back to the top and live the life of luxury he wanted. It would have not been the case if they burned him at the stake.

At long last, the _Tireless Lady_ stopped moving and Marwyn was free to disembark off the carrack, which he did without a regard behind, his meagre baggage hanging in a leather bag on his back. The air was fresh and smelled heavily the fish – not surprising when several feet on his right and left stones of streaming bass, freshwater wrasse, northern sole, shivering pollock and black cods. Some fishes weren't familiar but he wasn't a fisherman and his knowledge had been gained in the last fortnights among the Pentoshi crew.

A very corpulent Northerner covered in furs of atrocious rose and brown colours placed himself automatically in front of him before he had walked ten paces. By the Seven Hells, the man was ugly. His brown hairs were braided on one side of his head, and to add the lack of presence he had a double chin and a double belly. In short, this was a particular ugly man. Before he had the time to say he didn't know this person, the man was opening his mouth and proving his presence was anything but a coincidence.

"What brings you to White Harbor, Honoured Sorcerer?"

The tone was courteous and succeeded by a bow, but Marwyn could not help but feel a twinge of irritation. He was not a sorcerer, he was a mage! Unlike the latter, his study of the Art and the forces controlled by it had been purely academic. He had not manifested the desire to drown his colleagues in barrels of wine, throwing them out of windows or sacrifice them to monsters. No matter how many deserved it.

The last thought gave him unease however. Where had it come from?

"I am a mage, not a sorcerer..."

"The newcomers always say these words when they're coming here..." replied the Northerner with a joyous laugh. The rest of the sentence was pronounced in a conspiracy-sounding murmur. "But moons later they are sorcerers all the same..."

"I am what I am," Marwyn declared, catalysing his power to his eyes in order to activate his mage-sight. Since the Northerner knew what he was, there was no point restraining his contact from throwing spells. His eyes began to look deeper than this sad reality...and he regretted it a couple of heartbeats later.

The entire city in front of him was saturated with magic. All around him there were storms of pink and vivid colours gathering and erupting in the immaterial realm. This was not the calm, dead vastness he could draw little power from in the South. No, here the aether and the winds crossing it were infernos of power. But there were other beings materialising it. When magic came to his ears, otherworldly choirs began to sing a terrible melody. In a hurry, he cut the connection...but he had the time to see the dark purple inferno in the aura of the Northerner in front of him. It was like the man had his very being sucked by something magical...

"You are not a sorcerer. What are you?"

"My Lord granted me the great honour of Ritual Possession by a Grotesque." The accentuation on the last words made the majuscules impossible to miss. "I am now part of the Court of Gluttony." As he spoke, the man was getting fatter. His jaw was enlarged beyond the capacities of a human jaw, unveiling a set of very pointed teeth.

"Err...congratulations?" The smile of his interlocutor grew only bigger.

"By order of Lord Manderly, Master of White Harbor, Warden of the White Knife, Exalted Champion of the Gluttony Host, Shield of Desire, Defender of the Drink, all sorcerers must be presented upon their arrival." The voice was bantering and friendly, but the threat could be heard underneath it. "It allows us to avoid...regrettable incidents."

Marwyn tried in a hurry to remember everything he had heard about Possessed humans...unfortunately it was not much. The Faith and the secular authorities of the Andals had long considered the act as a heresy of the worst sort, an abomination which had to be erased at all costs. He knew from some of the most esoteric books he had read a Grotesque was one of the Demon servants affiliated with the Demoness Slaanesh and that they were fat things able to gobble fantastic quantities of food and drink...and that stopped here. He was pretty sure a Grotesque was not an entity which was delighting in battle...but starting a magic duel mere moment after he had arrived did not appear to be an intelligent idea. Undoubtedly there were guards in the harbour and behind the walls ready to intervene at the first sign of hostilities.

"Lead the way, then."

The Northerner saluted again and commenced to zigzag towards the gates, the former Archmaester on his heels. The large grey-steel doors were largely opened and guarded by about a score of soldiers watching the crowd with attention. A hand move of the Possessed in front of him, and the soldiers let them pass. A good thing because for a strange reason Marwyn's eyes were hurting when he looked the runic inscriptions graved on the wood of the spears.

"I'm afraid I didn't ask for your name." The Mage said as they followed a cart – full of fresh fishes, if the odour was any indication – in the main street. It was a pleasant surprise to see the avenues were correctly paved and somewhat straight. The odours were bearable too, proof the Northerners had built a functional sewer system.

"I am Bartimus," presented himself his guide. "Bartimus the Voracious." Like the demon inside him wanted to prove something, the Northern inflated again like a balloon, gaining a third belly in the turn of an eye before returning to a smaller corpulence.

Walking in the streets of White Harbor was an experience like none other. The whispers of magic were more pressing the further they advanced, and the power was coursing through the city in vague pink vapours. Fountains and places were decorated with statues of demons and hellish knights. Instead of septons shouting their sermons in front of their places of prayer, there were individuals cloaked in bright red, pink or purple robes shouting various heretical imprecations to the crowd. It did not feel at all like any Westerosi or Essossi city Marwyn had ever visited...truly the North had chosen to remain apart from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.

Of course, this opened more questions for him. It was really obvious what little knowledge he had of the place was completely outdated. Fishermen and traders must rarely leave the harbour and they couldn't feel the pressure of the Art reigning here.

"I mean no offense, Ser Bartimus, but what exactly is the Court of Gluttony?"

"Gluttony is one of the six Great Hosts honouring our Goddess Slaanesh." Bartimus was clearly searching his words to explain in a simple manner. "Six is the Holy Number of our Goddess, thus Six Hosts are existing at any given time to obey Her Will and Her Desires. Lord Manderly commands Gluttony in Her Name; the five other courts are Fortune, Lust, Domination, Glory and Perfection. Each Host has its Court, its Champions, its traditions, its artefacts and its own interests."

"Isn't it a bit too...chaotic?" Frankly the whole 'organisation' – and it was a generous word for it – was mildly insane. He had seen in his travels what happened when two men bickered for command and power and it wasn't pretty. Having six great commanders was going to result in large problems...and Slaanesh was far from the only divinity the Northerners worshipped.

"Order is abhorrent to the Gods." The response was pronounced like a septon quoting from the Holy Books of the Seven. The next sentences sounded more like the Northerner was giving his own opinion. "In the South, order may be preferable but we are not south of the Neck, sorcerer. Our lands are far more dangerous and each season has its perils."

Bartimus threw nonchalantly three coins of silver to a merchant of fruits when they passed by a small marketplace and took a big yellow fruit the size of a small melon in his chubby hands before eating a disturbingly large bite of it. The gurgle of satisfaction after his guide swallowed was...loud.

"Ah...better." Marwyn feigned to ignore the large rot which came out of Bartimus huge mouth. Or the purple flare surrounding the man of White Harbor. "You want to know more."

"Yes, I do," admitted the former Archmaester, damning his curiosity to the Seven Hells. "You told me you serve Slaanesh and are Possessed by a grotesque. But according to my sources of information, the main demons of your Goddess are daemonettes, not grotesques."

Bartimus chuckled as they turned left and the inner citadel of White Harbor came into view. Unlike the outer walls, those defences had many mermaid banners upon them that would have horrified a Reacher and human-sized runes blazing with the power of the Art. Storming the last bastion of a city was supposed to be a costly affair but the limits between the reality and the immaterial domains were really thin in White Harbor. Any enemy who managed to overwhelm the Northerners would have a series of nasty surprises.

"As we have six Hosts, six forms of Lesser Daemons for our Goddess exist." The explanation made sense...somewhat. Marwyn remarked Bartimus had pronounced the word 'daemon' instead of 'demon'. "Grotesques are the daemons the Court of Gluttony is most often associated though I must admit the daemonettes of the Court of Lust are extremely popular everywhere."

"What are the others?"

The part of the city they were entering was looking far more ancient and impregnated in magic. Some houses and fountains were looking a bit blurry to his eyes, the Art pouring inside them. They were shadows of beings appearing and flickering out of reality. It was not very reassuring.

"The Court of Fortune can count on the treasure seekers," the smile which was shown proved Bartimus thought he had had the best deal of the choices available. "For our brethren choosing the Court of Domination, the dream seekers are their allies. Lust is the domain of the daemonettes of course and Glory those of the adulators. Finally, the Chosen of Perfection have the flawless to conjure."

"Isn't unleashing these...daemons incredibly dangerous?" He had expected a denial, but Bartimus nodded with a pout on his large lips.

"They are a potent force when the Winds are favourable, but they can be quite enthusiastic in the pursuit of Desire...ah, we're here."

The doors of the Manderly dungeon were wide open in front of them, and Marwyn couldn't help but think some of the daemonettes, mermaid and wolves representations carved in the stones were far too realistic. The purple and red gems were shining mysteriously, which should not be possible as the sun had temporarily been hidden by a large white cloud. A powerful smell, heavier than a flower perfume, was making his head turn.

The climb of the white steps was done in silence, like it was a dream –or a nightmare. A mist was permeating everything, limiting vision to a few steps. It was no natural thing, he was sure. The air they were breathing had the taste of the Art and something else. Disagreeable at first, but after every stride it was getting more pleasant.

How long they marched in these corridors he was unable to tell. At one moment or another they entered a large hall where people were feasting. Columns of food and uncountable barrels of wine were spread out for hundreds of participants. By the looks of it, the celebrations had begun long before their arrival and would continue for far longer. Not all the beings present were human. In fact, about a third were demonic and were serving and dancing. This was a spectacle of madness, debauchery...and gluttony.

And then a rumble resonated at the end of a table. Startled, Marwyn saw the mass he had taken for a large and ugly decoration the width of a small elephant rise up. This was a man...or at least someone who had been born in this world as a man but had long evolved beyond mortal comprehension. Today, he was more like a grease mountain. The number of bellies and the overweight surplus in this charnel envelope were supernatural. And yet he lived.

Marwyn bent the knee after Bartimus for the true Master of White Harbor was in front of them.

"We were awaiting impatiently your arrival, Mage," rumbled Lord Wyman Manderly. "Slaanesh expects great things from you."

* * *

 **Asha Greyjoy 2**

Asha watched the coast with bitterness and resignation. This was it, then. Despite her best efforts to escape her fate, she had failed. Her attempt to get away from the Iron Islands before someone loyal to her father noticed her absence had been done too late, though she must have had a traitor in her crew for the _Bloody Hunter_ and her consorts to catch her _Black Wind_ the way they had. Every time she had bargained with one of her jailors her freedom with gold, silver, spices or a view of her tits, the man was replaced by a more stubborn and thick-headed bastard, never to be seen again. It did not matter if she was at Pyke or on the bridge of a longship. She was watched night and day by Ironborn who had no reason to be loyal to her. Of the _Black Wind_ 's entire crew, the only person staying was Brigit – Hagen's daughter – and Asha was certain she had only been granted the permission because she was a woman. Qarl, Hagen, Cromm and the rest of her crew had according to the rumours been dispersed on the hundreds of crew the Iron Fleet needed to sail. Asha would reach the Northern shore in a few turn of hourglasses and the moment she came ashore her destiny would be sealed.

King Balon Greyjoy – everyone who could hear the lightning and thunder knew the coronation was only a question of days – really wanted this war and a crown, and not necessarily in that order. He didn't want a daughter. Asha tightened her fists in impotent rage. Her last days at Pyke had proven how little the man pretending to be her father cared about her fate. She was a piece of meat and a shiny gift thrown to the wolves. The Lord Reaper wanted the armies of Winterfell fighting on his side and he wanted to get rid of his only child not born with a dick. This alliance had offered him both.

Rodrik was going to wed the Stark's Heir eldest daughter, a pretty little thing named Saara. She would marry the Winterfell's Heir eldest son, Torrhen Stark. Her demands that Theon came with her had been outright refused, meaning her little brother was going to be beaten and terrified by the two brutes she was supposed to call 'brothers'. Maybe Uncle Rodrik would be able to protect him but this was a forlorn hope.

"I hope you're happy." She said without turning her head when she heard heavy steps walking towards her.

"I obey my brother, my captain, my liege lord, my King," replied her uncle Victarion, which had recently become her least favourite uncle as he and his men prevented her evasions. There was no hesitation or compassion in his words. The more time she observed him, the more Asha was convinced the rumours and whispers were right. Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet, was as dumb as a bull and his balls had been severed by the Crow's Eye. He was a mindless brute, wearing his plate armour in all circumstances. "Remember your oaths, niece."

Asha remembered them very well, since she had never sworn any at all. Men when they were of age sailed to Pyke or to Old Wyk to swear fealty. But she was a woman, and the Drowned Priests had been hysterical at the idea of a woman fighting and commanding men. The _Black Wind_ had come out the shipyards of Harlaw, not Pyke, and House Greyjoy had ignored her adventures. In the couple of years, she had travelled to the Summer Sea or stayed at Harlaw. No oath, no promise and no recognition, but 'father' had sold her at the first opportunity.

She didn't answer back and Victarion Greyjoy, ever the brilliant speaker, turned around to bark new orders at the crew of the _Iron Victory_. While the sailors reduced the speed of the great longship, Asha continued to watch the sea and the contour of the fortress appearing in the distance.

"This is an ugly thing," remarked a black-bearded reaver twice her age. "The greenlanders do not build castles like this."

"They call it Bloodsteel Motte." Grumbled another man on Asha's right. "My father told me these men drink in the skulls of their enemies..."

This may well be true. Uncle Rodrik had sent her several copied of his books on Northern culture before her final departure and the Northerners living here were savage fighters and merciless to their vanquished enemies. If the black spikes on the beaches and atop every wall weren't impressive enough, the large flag flying atop the greatest of the three towers was a warning to all. A bloody-red armoured fist on a sable field was the heraldry of the flag, and seeing it felt like you were drenched in cold water. It was like the vision of Bloodsteel Motte had been purposely worked to scare enemies away. It was ludicrous of course, and yet...

"This is the fortress of House Glover." She told the growing number of crews watching the land in front of them with mutters and disbelief. The Motte was a mass of black and grey with spikes and skulls everywhere. Behind it, there was a dark forest with gigantic dark-green trees. The stronghold was the sole human construction visible leagues around. The rest was covered by the huge woods. "I don't see many ships."

"They must have less than a squadron all told," approved a crewman in Wynch colours. "Northerners have a lot of trees but they don't build enough ships." And this was the greatest resource the Ironborn had often bought or stolen on these shores. Who cared about the miserable bronze and the paltry silver the Northerners had in their coffers? The Ironborn of old had been attracted to these cold battlegrounds by the wood. The smallest grounds of the Wolfswood had trees so old they could build ten Iron Fleets with them and leave behind them the materials to build twenty times more.

"The Lord Captain wants us to prepare the rowboats!"

Usually, they would have come ashore with the longships, but there was no way the small harbour in front of them was ready to greet ten big longships in addition to their own ships. Moreover, House Greyjoy had placed many big spikes and other surprises on their shore to prevent Ironborn ships from launching an amphibious assault. Oh, and the former had many skeletons attached to them. Apparently some reavers had tried to raid Bloodsteel Motte in the past and the welcome had been...eternal.

Asha took her place in one of the small embarkations, glaring at the coffers which went in the third and fourth rowboat. A few of those had her clothes, armour and weapons but this was not the cause of her bad humour. No, the source of her dissatisfaction was directed at an ebony coffer with the golden kraken of House Greyjoy as the main decoration. This was the container where her wedding dress had been stored. If she had been able to be five feet away from it, she would have put this abomination to the torch...

With the vigorous arms of the Ironborn rowing, the journey to the Northern shore was short and barely worth mentioning. Men being men, it was Victarion, his first mate and his helmsman who debarked first. Asha, Brigit and the rest of the oarsmen followed.

The group waiting for them not ten feet away was large, at least three hundred men and women by her best estimate. Some looked like simple workers and ship crewmen – several scores rushed to help the other rowboats discharge the coffers and other goods. The rest on the other hand, were definitely warriors. There were many in ordinary steel armours, common soldiers that could be seen in the taverns of Harlaw, Tyrosh or the other greenlander lands. And in the back, standing like a line of death, were about three scores of tall men in black plate armour.

Their helmets were in the shape of skulls, their armours were covered in runes hurting the eyes and all had the red armoured fist of House Glover painted somewhere on their protections. This was...impressive. House Greyjoy could of course field more men in plate armour than this, but Asha's family had the title of Lord Paramount of the entire Iron Islands. According to Rodrik's vast knowledge, the Glovers were renowned bannersmen of the Starks but still minor players on the ever-changing Northern political structure. Mustering so many warriors in plate for the arrival of allies proved they were definitely a force to be reckoned with.

"Greetings, men and women of the Iron Islands," boomed a colossus in black plate with the Glover sigil a flamboyant mark on the dark breastplate. He was not wearing a helmet unlike his companions, and as a result the Ironborn party could watch his visage. Maybe at one point in the past, the man could have been considered 'fair', but now he had several big scars on the cheeks, forehead and jaw. "I am Ethan Glover, Lord Galbart's Master of Defences. I bid you welcome to the North in the name of Lord Galbart Glover, Master of Bloodsteel Motte, Exalted Warlord of the Host of Wrath, Axe of Ruin, Chosen of Khorne, the Last Wall."

"WE ARE THE LAST WALL!" Shouted like a single man the warriors with the kind of conviction telling you these armoured black figures would stop at nothing to kill you and mount more skulls on their standards. It would not surprise Asha if the red and black flags the heralds had had been drenched in blood. Due to the ferocity they uttered it, the sentence had to be House Glover's words.

"I have readied the blood, bread and salt," began Ethan Glover. "Promises of brotherhood and oath-binding will be made before the evening's meal and-"

"We do not intend to stay long," interrupted him Victarion. "My Lord Brother has urged me to come back at Pyke without losing a single day. I must prepare with my commanders the Iron Fleet for the conflict to come. There is no time for frivolities." Trust the Lord Captain to be as blunt and insulting as possible. Truly this was a good thing Uncle Victarion was born on the Iron Islands, Asha reflected. Serving under a greenlander Lord, someone would have murdered him. Several Northerners were looking at him with something looking like deep reprobation in their eyes. The others appeared to grit their teeth and wonder if the head of a Greyjoy would look good on a pike.

"It will be as you decide," answered the Glover soldier, graciously but with a frosty undertone which let her guess Victarion had not made a friend here. His head turned to one of his men in clothes of grey and brown, a woodsman or something of the sort. "Present my excuses to Lady Saara but the date of her departure has been advanced."

The woodsman nodded and raced back to the fortress like the hells of the greenlanders were after him. Asha took this opportunity to leave the ranks and close the distance with the Glover swordsmen. She pointedly ignored the glare her uncle sent her. She was well past the age to ask for his permissions.

"Lady Asha Greyjoy," said the Northerner. "This is an honour." The tone was respectful and the black eyes examined her from head to foot with a thin smile. Asha congratulated herself to have ignored the 'recommendations' of her father. If the Lord Reaper had had a choice, she would have landed shore in one of those horrible dresses and probably been the laughingstock of the North in days. She had opposed this decision based on Rodrik comments and it looked like the Harlaw wisdom had triumphed over what passed for intelligence at Pyke one more time.

Today Asha was wearing a midnight-blue cloak over a comfortable dark leather armour. It was not a set she would be comfortable wearing on a battlefield – her chest and her breasts were too lightly protected – but for a formal meeting like this one it was the solution.

"The honour is mine." She replied, trying not to sour more tempers than her ox of uncle. By the Drowned God, she hoped she wasn't going to have to play the greenlander emissary every time Northerner and Ironborn met.

Then the beast howls were heard.

Asha knew the noises many beasts of Westeros and Essos made, but these howls were making her shiver. It was a very detestable feeling. It was a sound telling you there was something bigger than humans in the woods of Bloodsteel Motte. And the 'something' was a hunter, not prey.

"How big are the wolves making this racket?" She asked to the Northerners.

Ethan had the shadow of a smile on his lips, but Asha saw many of his men were looking afraid.

"See for yourself." The Glover told her. The gates of the fortress opened totally and the creatures making the howls galloped out of it in a disorganised formation.

At first sight, Asha thought her eyes were tricked. But at each heartbeat the vision didn't stop. There were really two huge wolves racing to their location, with people riding them like the greenlanders usually rode coursers.

 _No, not wolves. Direwolves_.

She had heard the rumours like many reavers but seeing them...it was entirely different. The animals were the height of war horses...big warhorses and probably larger. The two predators were a deep grey in fur and they were near the sheer size of their jaws and fangs made her breathe more rapidly. The Glover workers and sworn swords separated in two deep lines to let the monsters approach unimpeded.

Moment after moment the direwolves closed the gap and several Ironborn around Victarion clinched to their weapons in fear. Asha herself had to admit she wasn't very reassured. The distant cousins of the 'normal' wolves were impossibly big and their paws and their fangs were awe-striking. At least she knew why each and every one of the men and women here was on foot. If the Glover party had brought horses near the animals, they would have gone crazy with fear...and she wouldn't have blamed them.

The effect of the direwolves and their rumblings growls had made such an effect it was only afterwards that Asha watched the riders of the great predators. Pleasant surprise, the two were young women and she was pretty sure the two had less name days than her under their belts. The direwolf of the right had big golden eyes, the fur was slightly darker than the other one and it was mounted by the youngest. The Stark girl – for who else would ride such predators – had a rather fair face, long dark brown hair styled in a warrior's fashion and deep grey eyes. She was wearing no helmet, but the rest of her attire was light black armour. On her chest was a luminescent grey direwolf eating a fish, surrounded by an eight-pointed star. Everything in her screamed 'warrior' and it wasn't at all the description the Ironborn who had went northwards the first time had described Saara Stark, so it had to be another youngest daughter.

And on the second direwolf –this one had pale eyes and was a bit lighter in fur – sat a Northerner with bright red hairs and blue eyes. Asha had no doubt this was Saara Stark, Eddard Stark's eldest daughter...and in her heart she intimately knew her father had no idea the doom they had just invited on their shores. The Northern woman wore an enticing blue robe that...in all honesty Asha had seen many whores work of diverse harbours entice their clients without wearing such transparent clothes. The female workers of whorehouses usually showed far less skin too. The robe had to be magical somewhat, because even a Lysene pleasure-slave would have difficulties wearing a cloth like this. It gave everyone a good view of her cleavage and her legs, although the back was covered by her long red hairs, which were a corona of flame nearly arriving on her hips. The same emblem of the wolf eating a fish and the eight-pointed stars was engraved on her silver belt. A sceptre resplendent with many gemstones was in her right hand, an heirloom surrounded a sort of blue-red halo. Her blue eyes were like sapphires...and having slept with several women she could tell this was not a fair maiden the Starks would offer. Fair was fair, Asha wasn't either, but she could recognise a beautiful snake when she saw one.

 _Rodrik is so fucked_.

And she didn't mean it in a pleasurable way.

Asha wanted to open her mouth, shout to Victarion and the rest of the reavers assembled here they were making the biggest mistake of their lives. But she didn't. May the Drowned God forgive her, she didn't.

What was she supposed to tell anyway? Her father –the great and invincible Balon Greyjoy – had had Saara Stark presented to him several fortnights ago and evidently found nothing wrong with her. The last moons had proven quite clearly that her words had no weight at all at Pyke.

 _She is the dagger in the dark the Starks will use to control us_.

It was a sobering realisation but not one difficult to make. The entire affair wouldn't be difficult; Rodrik and Maron had never been the sharpest captains navigating the Sunset Sea. Victarion always obeyed her father and was still in denial with the affair which had ended with him beating his wife to death. Aeron was drunk most of the time. The Crow Eye had been exiled years ago. Her father wanted to be a crown above all else. No, the trap was perfect...

Ethan Glover and all his black knight-warriors – or the Northern equivalents since the Northerners didn't believe in the stupid superstition of knighthood established the Andals – bent the knee like a single man. Some lesser warriors and ship workers outright prostrated in front of the women as they dismounted their direwolves.

It was quite disturbing to see two of the men who had run behind the beasts out of Bloodsteel Motte were humiliating themselves by serving as footrests for the Starks.

"Lady Saara Stark, Lady Arya Stark."

"Rise, Ethan Glover." The youngest –Arya – told the Glover commander. "You have served House Stark well."

For a few heartbeats, there was silence from the entire assembly. The melody coming to her ears was the one of the birds' cries, the sound of waves and the gust of winds.

"Rise, all of you," declared Saara Stark in a haughty tone. Her voice was beautiful, but her behaviour and her expression were exposing an incredible arrogance. The fact many Northerners watched her like she was a goddess made flesh was also sickening. And to her great shame, many Ironborn of the Iron Fleet's retinue looked like they were ready to throw themselves to her feet if it gave them the slightest chance of attracting her favours.

The two Stark sisters rapidly hugged in a gesture of farewell, speaking in a harsh foreign tongue before the eldest marched away, a direwolf and ten armoured soldiers on her heels. The blue robe and the seductress under it were such a pretty vision in this weather, and Asha wondered how the Stark daughter could wear this kind of attire here. It was not exactly freezing, but neither was it the hellishly hot sun of the Reach.

Asha had turned her eyes to the future bride of Rodrik and almost jumped when the other Stark sister hugged her with an iron embrace.

"So you're the Greyjoy Torrhen is going to marry." The grey eyes of the warrior-lady shone with a mischievous expression. "He's going to like you I think. Lord Greyjoy didn't tell us you were a warrior."

How typical of her father...although to be honest he didn't know much of her life in the last years.

"I am a warrior and a captain," the sole daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Islands amended, giving a last look at the departing group of her uncle Victarion. She stopped watching however as Arya Stark firmly pushed her with an iron grip away from the shore. By the Kraken how strong was this girl? She was shorter than Asha by a good head and far younger, but the muscles she had under this armour appeared to have the strength of steel.

The force of her new guide was ignored a moment later as she came face to face with the massive grey direwolf.

"This is Valkia," presented the Stark sister with humour. Asha tensed, there was a joke coming and she had a good idea who was the target. "Valkia, this is Asha, Torrhen's new mate. Greet her, Valkia."

"Don't you dare-" The warning was completely missed by the huge grey-furred animal and before she had the time to blink, a great tongue was licking her profusely.

 _Balon Greyjoy, you will pay for everything_.

* * *

 **Waymar Royce 3**

Waymar shivered and tried not to vomit. He had seen some bad things in his life before sailing north, but before today the most horrible had been a smallfolk's corpse after one of those seven-damned clansmen tortured him and then cut him apart piece by piece.

It was nothing compared to this. What had been a human arm was now mutated beyond recognition. The skin had taken a green colour and instead of fingers there were three octopus-like tentacles. By itself, it would have been already been horrible and a damnation of the highest order but the changes had not stopped there. From the forearm to the edge of the tentacles, there were yellow eyes emerging at irregular intervals and one could almost feel the malevolence in those irises-less pupils.

The recruit of the Night's Watch who had formerly owned said arm – a Tyroshi-born pirate the Gulltown fleet had captured and sent to the Watch – was muttering incoherent sentences, his attention desperately trying to evade the ugly vision of his diseased appendage.

"Gather the recruits," the chief of the patrol, an Ironborn called Cotter Pyke ordered in a tone that tolerated no debate. "Let them see the consequences of failure."

It did not take long for Waymar and the rest of the men present to assemble. They had all been in the small outpost a day east of Castle Black when the magical storm had hit and they were impatient to finally reach the main fort of the Night's Watch.

When they saw what had happened to the former pirate, a score vomited or fell on their knees, babbling prayers to whatever Gods they believed in. Samwell Tarly emptied again his stomach on the no-longer white snow, but this time he was just one of many.

"You were told to don your armours and stay armoured in them until we reached Castle Black," began the Black Brother in a tone where there was no sympathy. A finger was pointed at the mutated arm. "You were warned storms here were incredibly dangerous. The Wall stops most of the antique magic from Beyond-the-Wall, but the closest you are from the Wall, the more you are in danger. The Lord Commander and the Black Castellans want men to serve in the Watch, not beastmen, spawn or other mindless abominations." The fingers tightened in a fist of black steel. "This recruit chose to disregard the advice we repeated eight times to you before we started this march. He thought he knew better than veterans of the long vigil."

The contempt in Pyke's voice was evident and the rangers to his sides all regarded the arm with the kind of expression one reserved to worms and insects.

"Please," begged the recruit, facing their superior on his knees. "Please, the whispers...it was the whispers which made me do it!"

Cotter Pyke struck at a speed Waymar knew he was unable to equal. The throat of the Tyroshi was seized in an implacable grip.

"So the whispers told you to remove the protection of your right arm," grated the member of the Night's Watch. "Next time they will surely tell you to throw yourself from the top of the Wall. Will you obey?"

The mutant recruit stared for a few seconds his mouth wide open before attempting to shout his denial. Too bad the pressure on his throat did not really allow his pleads to be heard.

"No! Of course not!" he shrieked as loud as he could once the grip was released and he fell on the snow.

"By Khorne, I am glad to hear this!" The sarcasm in Cotter's exclamation could not have been greater. "For a moment, I was sure you were destined to provide the beastmen a few good laughs when they will descend again southwards."

The senior Black Brother punched without warning. The attack was done slower than the previous actions but the cry of pain from his victim's lips proved armour had its limits –though given how many spikes they were on the fists and the rest of Cotter Pyke's equipment, this was not exactly surprising.

Waymar gritted his teeth but didn't move. This was completely contrary to the chivalry code, but his first days in the Gift had made painfully clear there was no code of honour here. You obeyed the Black Brothers until you were one yourself...or you died. Intervening would not save the Tyroshi from whatever fate they had planned for him.

It was difficult to stay inactive like this, in an armour decorated with heretical runes that nothing distinguished from the others – well, except from the one of Tarly because the Reacher was so fat they had to mix the largest set parts they had around for him.

"What I am going to do with you?" The former Ironborn mused, contemplating the black-haired recruit. "You just lost your sword arm. Not that you knew how to wield a sword in the first place, mind you."

The man flinched but didn't answer. There was a new series of noises from the arm and a new tentacle emerged, this time where the wrist should have been.

"You are pathetic." The judgement was merciless and blunt. "I I had it my way, your little friends would use you as target when we practise archery this evening." The young Valeman could not believe his ears. He wasn't going to do that, was he? It was a scare tactic, it had to be...

"But I am a brother of the Night's Watch and I obey orders." The 'unlike you' was not uttered but everyone heard it nonetheless. "The Lord Commander will decide your fate once we arrive to the fort. Pray Nurgle and prepare good arguments. The Great Bear doesn't like recruits who believe themselves above our rules."

A last look was given at the mutation.

"And if I see you use this arm to attack the other recruits or practise sorcery without proper supervision, I will end your miserable existence myself. Understood?"

* * *

 **Lady Saara Stark 1**

It was dark in her cabin and working at the light of only eight candles was not easy. The Lord of Change providing, it would have to do. The body of the Ironborn next to her was losing more and more blood, a crimson river flooding in the ritual cups, soaking the ancient eight-pointed star she had traced in a few turn of hourglasses and she didn't fancy 'inviting' a second reaver in her cabin for the night. It would raise too many questions, enchantments or not enchantments, especially when the pirates in question never reappeared once they arrived at Pyke. She had Queen mounting guard before her cabin to warn her of potential intruders but it was best not to tempt her luck.

Saara breathed louder before uttering eight words of power. Each burned her throat and her tongue. The language of the Gods had not been created for human mouths and the pronunciation required years of training, since the tiniest mistake could result in the most terrible accidents.

For several heartbeats, nothing happened. The young daughter of House Stark forced herself to remain immobile.

Then drop by drop the blood began to rise in the air. A cold wind from nowhere made the candles flicker and Saara shivered. Like her siblings, she had received several boons from the Gods and those included an inhuman resistance to the cold and the heat. This was not a weather issue alas but the side-effects of her ritual and she wasn't immune to it.

The blood coalesced to form a humanoid figure. It was an ugly thing, but it had mouth, eyes and ears. The purpose of the ritual being to communicate on extreme distances, beauty could be forgotten for the time being.

"Sister,"

"Sister," answered the voice of her sister Arya. "I trust everything is well?"

It was a polite way to ask if there was no one to listen to their conversation.

"So far there have been no obstacles I've been to overcome." The Ironborn were not worthy of the title 'obstacles' but it would have to do for now. Saara had not been impressed by the commanders who had been chosen to accompany Victarion and his niece Asha northwards. "Six out of the ten longship commanders have sworn their swords and their souls to me." She let Arya see her satisfied smirk. "They were barely a challenge, sister."

"You're the most powerful sorceress of our generation, Saara." The chuckle in her youngest sister voice was unmistakable. "I would have been surprised if they were able to resist you without any training."

Saara smiled widely but Arya had not finished. "Be careful, sister. Asha Greyjoy saw partially through your charms and enchantments. Our 'allies' are iron-headed but not every lord of the Iron Islands are willing to close their eyes and their ears when their Lord Paramount commands. There will be resistance to the plans grandfather and father gave you."

"I know," she admitted. "The Drowned Priests and their fanatics, the Harlaw Houses, the veteran captains, the old and new generations of reaver...they all have good reasons to fear us. But they are not united and I can use their enmities to create my power base. The war will be useful to get rid of the biggest opponents and once it is done, well..."

She opened her hands and readjusted her posture, conscious she was letting Arya have a full view of what laid under her opened black night robe.

"I don't care how many Ironborn and thralls you invite to your bed," said her young sister in an amused tone. "And I don't think father and grandfather will choose to make an issue of it."

"Of course not," It would hypocritical from the Stark and his Heir to lament this when they had been many women invited to their quarters in the last years. "Speaking of inviting someone to your bed...you haven't yet found a lover, do you?"

Blood communication rituals like the one they were using did not describe well the visage of the recipient but Saara knew the signs of blushing on her sister's face.

"I'm sure you will find someone once the Hosts gather for the war...may I suggest a Umber or a Mormont?"

"Saara..." The manner Arya growled was very reminiscent of their direwolves. Oh, how her sister was easy to make fun of. "You are lucky to be hundred of leagues away." Bah, Arya was still young and with the bloodshed coming on the horizon, she would certainly find lovers. Year after year, her little sister was taking more and more after their aunt according to father.

The ritual was devouring more and more blood, so Saara came back to more serious subjects, all the while cursing in her head the evidence she wasn't in Khorne's favour anymore. The God of War and Blood didn't like sorcerers and if her name hadn't been Stark, her abilities in this domain would have disappeared a couple of years ago. Like every member of her family, she tried to worship the Four equally. This was the theory behind the worship of the Undivided Pantheon. In reality, it was anything but simple. Her ties to the Gods Khorne and Nurgle were breaking off one by one and by the time she celebrated her next name day it would probably be over.

Like it or not – and she definitely enjoyed her powers and the boons coming with them – she was now the agent of the God Tzeentch and the Goddess Slaanesh.

"Have there been important news since my departure?"

"Oh, plenty," Arya shrugged. "There are two which may be of interest for your plots. First, Euron Greyjoy is sailing back to Westeros."

"The one they call Crow's Eye? The failed sorcerer?" Thank the Gods she had studied lengthily the genealogical trees of the Ironborn Houses before the longships arrived. "His brother banished him years ago and forbid him to return."

Arya rolled her shoulders in ignorance. "The information from our spies and our sorcerers is in agreement this time. He is still very far away but he sails westwards for Lys. Lord Manderly suggests killing him as soon as you are able."

Given the succession problems the man could cause, this was certainly not a bad idea. The problem would be how to do it before the _Silence_ and its infamous crew reached Pyke. Magical storms had their appeals, but relying on her new 'allies' to bury the brother of Balon Greyjoy under the numbers may be the most efficient solution.

"And the second?"

"There has been evidence the Renegades have created a new base of operation at Casterly Rock."

Saara sighed loudly.

"There is a new imbecile thinking destroying the Gods by using their own weapons against them will succeed." It was not a question. The idea was not new and from the point of view of unbelievers raised in adoration of the Seven-Who-Are-One, an entity willing to fight against the Gods worshipped north of the Neck had to look like a good idea. But by the time they realised they had made the greatest mistake of their lives, they were generally a thorn in Winterfell plans and their souls were enslaved to the will of the Renegade. "Who leads them?"

"The dwarf son of Tywin Lannister," revealed Arya.

The eldest daughter of Eddard Stark grimaced. This was not the sort of target which could be removed quietly and discreetly. Any action she took was going to take was going to require a lot of preparation and given how secure the Rock was, success was not guaranteed.

The levels of blood had decreased fast and the ritual was going to end. There were only a few heartbeats of communication left.

"I will deal with it." Or rather the Ironborn and the best assassins gold could buy would do it. "Give Torrhen and the family my love, sister."

"Love you too."

On these words the red midst was devoured by the magic and the only things which were left of the ritual were the eight-pointed star and the Ironborn corpse. Saara rose up, thinking this ritual was really useful but tiring and not very practical. The Blood God rarely made things simple when the rituals and sorcery were concerned.

Opening the door magically, she let Queen enter her cabin and take the dead man outside. The door was closed and she fell on her minuscule bed. The _Iron Victory_ would soon reach Pyke and she needed to be at her best for her wedding and the damnation of the Iron Islands.

* * *

 **Lady Catelyn Stark 1**

As long as the blood flowed in her mouth, the sensations were truly heavenly.

But it never lasted. The blood of every living thing was a finished substance. The feasting never lasted long enough. The warmness of the life just extinguished was a delectable meal but she always wanted more.

Then her victim held its last breath as he was bled white and Catelyn felt like a complete monster.

Fair was fair, she was one.

Retracting her fangs from the throat she had just torn apart, she wondered what her appearance looked like now. In all likelihood, a mirror would show dishevelled red hairs, piercing blue eyes and a mouth dripping of blood.

The first times she had done this, Catelyn had tried to convince herself this was just temporary. She would beat the curse of the demons. Once she escaped the North, she would stop drinking blood. After all, whatever sorcery the Northerners heretics had inflicted upon her body, she was a proud follower of the Seven. She believed in them, they would protect her!

It had taken her mere moons to realise that in this like in many things, she knew absolutely nothing. The Seven could not protect her in this realm of chaos and magic. No, north of the Neck it was the Four who reigned over mortal lives.

And these Gods had long memories. They had memories of the last Justmans betraying their First Men allies. Usually the divine masters did not care about lordly matters but the betrayal had been shortly followed by the Riverlanders betraying their sacred oaths and denying their millenary-old religion.

"Better?" asked her husband, regarding her with a calm demeanour which always half-surprised her.

When she was in one of her feeding frenzies, a red veil fell on her vision and at that moment she was no better than a rabid beast. Many veterans and champions of Winterfell had chosen to remain out of sight after they had watched her lose control the first times.

"Better," she answered, giving a last regard to the corpse tied to the altar stone. The man – a spy from Essos the Stark cavalry had found between Winterfell and the Cerwyn castle – had really had a nasty death under her fangs. There were daemons and predators in the North who had weapons making death almost pleasurable. She was not one of them. When she had refused to worship the Ancient Pantheon after her arrival inside Winterfell walls, the punishment had been the straegai curse. If she wanted to survive, she had to drink human blood and the new dentition she had been given made death extremely painful. No doubt Tzeentch or Khorne had thought it would be a good joke. "It should be enough until we return to Winterfell."

Eddard Stark gave a nod of approval, remaining silent and caressing gently her long red hairs.

By Slaanesh, how she loved this man. She loved and she hated him. If there had not been an abundance of Northern pirates and raiders plaguing the frontiers of the Riverlands, she would not have been sent northwards for a marriage with a heretic. She would not be forced to drink human blood from spies, traitors and criminals – at least those were their 'crimes' from a Stark perspective.

To be fair, Eddard Stark was in no way responsible for her situation. Her marriage had been the final result of one of Aerys II's ideas. The ones the sovereign of the Iron Throne found 'excellent' but which made the rest of the Seven Kingdoms aghast. Her father could have refused but instead had used the opportunity to wed Lysa to the Heir of the Vale. Eddard had not even been the intended husband for her; he had taken the place of his deceased brother Brandon, dead in a Black Crusade Beyond-the-Wall.

This did not mean she didn't hate him for the methods he had used to transform her into a monster. She hated what he had done to her...how he had broken everything in her and remodelled it to fulfil his desires. She had accepted other women in their bed, succumbed to a lust of war and debauchery and her beliefs had been destroyed one by one. Eddard had made her strong and made her happy with strong children...and for this she loved him. May the daemons of the North forgive her.

"Will you join the shield wall this evening?"

"Yes," she bared her teeth in a parody of smile, though she knew very well Eddard wasn't scared at all by her actions. But then it was difficult to worry someone able to wrestle a direbear with his bare hands, summon daemons with a flick of his fingers and beat ten Umber warriors in a free-for-all melee. "Yes, I will Eddard. You do not have to worry. I know where my duty lies."

The Catelyn Tully of the Riverlands would have been horrified by this answer. Catelyn Stark, who had lived over eighteen years in the North, was conscious of the reality. The very nature of the lands ruled by House Stark meant they were extremely dangerous. There was a reason the House words of the Masters of Winterfell were 'Winter is coming' and not 'Enjoy Winter in this warm bed'. The North was extremely dangerous to live in. There were huge fantastic beasts living everywhere, the worst storms could transform you into a mindless mutant if you had not the adequate protections and there were always many servants of the Northern Gods wanting to show their prowess in duel or battle. North of the Neck, everyone trained for war. If you had the strength to wield a sword or a spear, then your duty was to participate in the defence of your home. The Gods worshipped here all had a point in common: they despised weakness and not knowing how to defend yourself was a major one.

For a moment, her husband stood silent, his gaze on the frigid waters of the Long Lake. The ground was not frozen but great herds of herbivores like the winter moose were descending south from their pastures near Last Hearth. Summer was not yet over, but it wouldn't be long before the change of seasons arrived. The uncountable sorcerers spread from the Gift to Moat Cailin all agreed autumn would arrive from three to five fortnights.

"Winter is coming," started Eddard, taking her right hand in his black armoured fist, never stopping looking at the natural mirror formed by the lake. "Our enemies grow in strength. They feel the great battles of our time coming."

For a moment she said nothing, delighting in the united picture they had to present to the outside world. Him, tall and broad-shouldered, dark-haired and grey-eyed, wearing a formidable set of grey-black armour most men would find impossible to walk in. Her, average in height and slim built, red-haired and blue-eyed, wearing the dark red leather of the Morghon-Sidai – the only clothes she could wear when the time to feed was near least she dirtied her attire beyond redemption.

"You always knew the beastmen and the skavens would come." She said after a moment. "The spawns, the mindless remains of the Giants and the old Free Folk tribes will march soon too. And the servants of the Great Enemy will follow..."

Names had powers and even here many leagues away, Catelyn Stark would not dare uttering loud the name of the Abomination amassing her undead legions in the deep north. For all her hatred and distrust of the powerful entities enforcing her curse, there was no denying that men and women could live their lives worshipping them. The evil rising in the darkest and coldest parts of Westeros wanted the death of everything.

"I had hoped we would have the time to finish the first part of our conquests and secure them." Her husband admitted. "As it stands, our armies will need to fight at the Wall and in the South. And as you know, our supply of soldiers is not limitless."

This was at the same a truth and a lie. Yes, the North could not field the great armies the Reach and the Westerlands could muster in a few moons. The kingdom was simply too vast, their centuries-old internal issues would not go away in a single year and the presence of magic in the tactics did not change the fact men and beasts had to eat and drink. But the North had the daemons to summon on the battlefield to change the odds. And they were an unstoppable force when unleashed by someone competent.

"Saara will give you the Iron Islands." The mention of her eldest daughter brought conflicted feelings. On the one hand, the Gods had granted her a daughter who had her very appearance unlike her other daughter and her three sons. On the other hand, said daughter had nothing of the old Catelyn Tully in her. Saara Stark was a powerful sorceress whose main interests these days were the practise of sorcery, riding her direwolf Queen and inviting young men to her couch.

Not that the rest of children were any better. Rickard of course was far too young to enjoy the vices of his eldest siblings but Cregan had exploded many rocks and trees in his sorcery experiments. Arya was Arya, a warrior born. And Torrhen was sorcerer and warrior...

"The Iron Islands are weak and led by a man who understands nothing to the noble art of war." Eddard was more amused than anything else by her comment. "They are like the worst of our berserkers; point them at the enemy and let them slaughter everything on their path."

The Heir of Winterfell – though this may change any day now since the Grey Wolf was well past his prime – turned his head towards the massive grey direwolf resting near a tree. Redfang had been born in the wild like all direwolves mounted by the Starks, but the complicity between the animal and his master had been forged in blood and steel many years ago.

"If you don't trust the Ironborn," and no one appeared to do that these days, "perhaps marrying Torrhen to a girl of the Riverlands would have improved our relations with my father's bannersmen."

The occasions Lord Rickard and her husband asked her opinion were rare and the invitations to their war councils were rarer. On this subject however she had been authorised to open her voice. Asha Greyjoy didn't bring anything to the union a modest Noble House could give. The axes and swords of the Ironborn would go to war with the marriage of Rodrik Greyjoy and her daughter celebrated. The girl dowry was small-sized.

"Except the Blackwoods, no Lord south of the Neck is interested in marrying a Northerner my dear wife." The hands of her husband went in her dishevelled red hairs, a cold sensation under the mild winter sun. "And Lord Tytos' girl is far too young for Torrhen."

Her husband shook his head negatively. "I heard the reasons why Asha Greyjoy isn't suitable, but the point is a bigger dowry and an ally in the Riverlands which will turn his cloak the war horns will sound isn't what Torrhen needs. The next years are going to be fraught with peril and the daughter of Balon Greyjoy is a resourceful captain. She is a fighter and will give him good advice."

"As you wish my Lord husband," She made no effort to disguise the mockery but this was just an appropriate retort for the insinuation Catelyn had certainly been anything but a loyal wife in her first years of wedding – and one might argue it had continued well after this. She had sent many letters to her father and the rest of her family to inform them of the heretical and treasonous actions of the Lord Paramount of the North in her first moons at Winterfell. All had been intercepted and modified to suit the Starks' goals but still. "I just pray unions with Ironborn aren't what you have in mind for our three younger children."

"Oh, have no fear on this." Eddard's face was impossible to read as usual, but there was light of malice in them. "Our little daemons won't marry Ironborn, I promise you."

This was not as reassuring as she would have liked but there was no time to tell him this. Faster than her enhanced eyes could discern, Eddard Stark had abandoned his contemplation and was now kissing her passionately.

Their kiss was like one of her bites when she needed to feed. Deep and terrible, the lust overwhelmed her senses. The beast she resisted as long as she was awake roared inside her chest. Her nails sharpened into claws. It was good her blood needs had been satiated because otherwise she would have lost completely control here and there.

"Monster," she growled once they stopped the embrace to breath.

"Monster," he agreed. "But don't tell me you hate it."

"I hate you." The Northern warlord she had sworn her life to raised an eyebrow before giving her a second deep kiss. "I love you." She managed to articulate once it ended. "Now take me."

"I found a trout and turned it into a shark," laughed her husband, his grey eyes terrible to behold so close. Then they abandoned everything for passion. One day they would kill each other, but not today. No, this was still summer. Winter had not yet come for their union of hate and love.


	5. Summer Games

**Chapter 5**

 **Summer Games**

 **Tyrion Lannister 2**

The village of Oxcross was absolutely not impressive in any way. Granted it was a bit unfair, he was a dwarf born and raised within the splendour of Casterly Rock. Against the formidable thousand years-old natural citadel of the Westerlands, there were not many locations and man-made masterworks which could stand the comparison.

Once these details were said, the reality was the reality: there was not much to see at Oxcross. It was one of these minor villages on the sides of the Rock Road, the great road built and maintained by House Lannister to walk and ride from the western coast to the fortress of the Golden Tooth. Past the seat of House Lefford of course, it was no longer called the Rock Road. It became the River Road, like the Tullys and their vassals had had the idea to unite and imitate the work of the West workers. Tyrion had read the dusty archives and knew the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands of the time had only been able to begin and finish the large roads with King's Landing support. Otherwise, the Lords of the Trident would still be there squabbling with each other and using the muddy wheel-breaking animal paths they had the audacity to call 'roads'.

But back to Oxford, the village he was watching with a Myrish spyglass in one hand and a cup of wine in the other. It was a village of about a hundred houses like they were plenty in the Westerlands. Built on the slope of a very small hill like most of the settlements in this part of the Kingdom, it had enjoyed a moderate prosperity in these long years of peace. Oxcross was sufficiently far from the coast to be protected from the storms coming from the Sunset Sea but only five days of tranquil ride away from Casterly Rock and thus avoided the harshness of the high passes and low mountains of their eastern border. In months of long summer like this one, the harvests were particularly bountiful and the village being nearly on top of the Rock Road was a guarantee the farmers met no problem when they wanted to sell fruits, vegetables or their surplus livestock to wealthy merchants or the occasional travellers.

Oxcross like many villages of this size had no Knightly House to call master. If the records in the lower levels of the Rock could be trusted, there had been a minor tower here some two hundred years ago but House Oxfield had sided with the Blackfyres during the First Rebellion and when the time came to punish the traitors, the Lord Lannister of the time had not been in the mood for clemency and hostages. House Oxfield had disappeared like so many Knightly Houses fell, and Tyrion was not sure a single inhabitant of Oxcross remembered they had once gone to war under the banner of an ox. Like the inhabitants of Lannisport, the Oxcross shepherds and farmers were paying their taxes directly to his Lord Father and when the banners had been called for the war of the Ninepenny Kings, they had sent their young men under the gold lion of House Lannister.

As far as Tyrion had investigated, this was all there was to know about Oxcross. In the history of the Seven Kingdoms, no great battles had ever been fought near it. There were no gold or silver mines under these green pastures. The greatest resources of Oxcross were the corn of its fields and the wool of its sheep.

The most imposing structure of the village was the small sept where an elderly septon blessed the babies, preached his sermons once every seven days and did whatever religious men did in their lives. There was a small inn close to the road which was also serving as a tavern for the local smallfolk.

In short, Oxcross had all the appearance of a small and productive village, its people were loyal to Lord Tywin Lannister and thoughts of treachery and conspiracy against their liege were so foreign that the Summer Islanders were far more likely to attack and sack Lannisport before these Westerners rebelled.

It was certainly not a place where any Brave Son was searching for heretics and abominations against the Seven.

Then again, perhaps this was the whole point, Tyrion mused. While the self-proclaimed guardians of the Faith were tracking their prey in the ugly lodgings of Lannisport, northern swamps or desolate mountains, the real danger was hiding mere feet away from the road where soldiers and merchants came every day. The Rock Road was regularly patrolled, of course. But were the sworn swords of every Lord really searching for enemies when there was a tavern calling for them a hundred feet away?

Speaking from experience, Tyrion was ready to bet the answer to this question was a 'no'. When people wanted to get drunk, have a girl in their bed and enjoy some rest before their poor rear stopped hurting when they left the saddle – not necessary in this order, mind you – they rarely thought about the enemies waiting in the shadows.

"Captain Tyrar, prepare your men." He ordered while looking at a plain and sturdy house which looked like it had been here for a very long time. It was not completely outside the village, but it wasn't at the centre of it, either. The grass surrounding the house was yellow and sparse, an oddity when one saw the green landscape of Oxcross and something that should have pushed someone to raise the alert. The problem was that no smallfolk had done so, or if they had done it, the greater villages and the Rock had never heard of it. He finished his cup of wine, before handing it to Pod.

"Yes, my Lord." The aged blonde-haired officer saluted martially with eagerness. It was understandable; his Lord Father's orders to the Captain had obviously been a form of punishment for some failure the Lord of Casterly Rock had decided but instead Tyrion had informed him they were going to make a detour to hunt heretics before riding east to see the Great Tourney given in Prince Aegon's honour.

"You heard Lord Tyrion! There are heretics in this house, arrest them for the glory of the Rock!"

Some two scores of swords were drawn from their scabbards and the Lannister guards, magnificent in their red cloaks, leonine helmets and mail shirts they wore over boiled weather.

"For the glory of the Rock and House Lannister!" shouted the men, the ruckus making a lot of partridges flying away from a tree they had been resting and probably killing the effect of surprise in one go.

Oh by the Seven, it was not like it was going to matter. Unless the group of heretics hiding in the house was including deaf and blind men, they must have seen the force which had just arrived on their doorstep.

It was an observation more than verified before he had the time to say 'Castamere'.

"Crush that door!" ordered Captain Tyrar to the four of his men who were carrying an improvised ram – it was the carved remnant of a tree trunk they had found a league before Oxcross.

The retaliation came from a fissure which had been hidden behind the ivy. From his position from afar, Tyrion was only able to see what looked to be a hand and an immaterial spear of livid green. The effects, on the other hand, were far more unpleasant.

The Lannister guard who was hit by this sorcery threw down his weapon and began to scratch his own face while screaming in agony.

"Definitely heretics, Pod." He said in a satisfied voice to his squire – the poor scion of House Payne was watching with astonished eyes and a wide-open mouth. The poor lad had been aware of his plans for some time, but it seemed the application of them under the pleasant sun of the Westerlands was giving him headaches.

"Our guards do seem to have fun killing the demon-loving scum," he uttered out loud for the benefit of the six men having stayed behind to ensure his personal protection.

Truly, nothing could be further from the truth. The door of the heretic's lair had finally broken, but the first man to run inside was projected outside by an unseen force, his whole body covered in green flames and a spear piercing his leg.

Fortunately, these were the red cloaks of Lord Tywin Lannister, not some band of peons and green farmers levied before a long campaign. Seeing their brother-in-arms fall, battle-cries extorting the might of House Lannister echoed and the soldiers slashed their way into the house. The loud noises arriving to his ears told him that there was a lot of animation...the steel clashing against the steel was unmistakable for anything else.

"I hope they will get some prisoners and the papers," Tyrion Lannister spoke out loud. He wasn't going to say it in public, but even with the information learned from the _Book of Malal_ , finding this band of heretics had been a monumental chore.

The screams were really becoming loud, though.

"HEAR ME ROAR!"

"FOR THE GRANDFATHER!"

"THE SEVEN HELLS AWAIT YOU!"

"THE TRUE GODS WILL NOT RELENT OR SURRENDER!"

The big issue he had in his quest to reduce the threat posed by Chaos cults was that they weren't stupid. The Faith, the Brave Sons in particular, were rather blind and narrow-minded, but the real heretics had taken a lot of precautions to avoid the iron fist of their trackers. Contrary to one might expect, the worshippers of the Northern abominations were paying their taxes in due time, went to the local sept at least a dozen times per moon and on average did everything to prove their loyalty to their Lord Paramount. The author of the _Book of Malal_ had written lengthily on the question and concluded no heretic worth the name had ever been imprisoned for not paying his due in gold and silver.

No, to find the cults, you needed to discover quartz and other precious ingredients, stones and components they needed for their rituals. If he found the chariots and merchants transporting these unusual objects, he would find the heretics.

"My Lord..."

Podrick's intervention forced him to turn his eyes to the roof...which had apparently begun to burn in green flames. As if that wasn't enough, the four guards which had fallen to the enemy spells were now putrefied corpses, the noises of battle were only rising from inside, three soldiers rushed out of the habitation with panicked looks and a very pungent odour of musk was coming to his little nose.

Frowning, the young brother of Jaime Lannister saw his first raid on a Chaos base turn into a complete disaster. It was frustrating. So many searches, days passed in the archives and many gold dragons spent for so little result. He was obviously not going to get the information he needed from this raid.

It did not take long before Tyrar himself got out with his remaining men – and Tyrion noticed half a score was missing – and then the soldiers began in a hurry to torch down the building and the bodies of the fallen.

"Your sources were quite accurate my Lord, but they underestimated the danger posed by these sorcerers," the Lannister Captain told him when the house was a pyre and the roof had collapsed, burying whatever was still alive in there in an avalanche of flames and stones. "I lost fourteen men for three sorcerers."

Tyrion grimaced openly but inside he wasn't really surprised. Chaos sorcerers were a plague difficult to eradicate at the best of times and all Tyrar and his men had was the good old steel of their swords and their courage.

"I will send a raven at Sarsfield to my Lord Father," he informed the commander of his escort. "We will have other experienced men ready when we return from King's Landing."

 _And let's praise Malal I read this book and realised the true scale of the threat. The Book of Malal was right; the laws of Order can't comprehend their opposites. It takes Chaos to oppose Chaos_.

* * *

 **Lord Steffon Baratheon 2**

Walking around the uncountable tents which had been built specially for this momentous event, the Lord of Storm's End could tell the Great Tourney was going to be an event remembered by tens of thousands Westerosi, smallfolk and highborn alike.

The weather was as perfect as it was possible to be: a warm sun and a great blue sky, and there were rarely more than three small white clouds seen per day. Despite the formal beginning of the tourney being four days away, already hundreds of knights from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms had arrived. Great Lords and hedge knights alike were watched by a massive crowd as their parties rode from the Kingsroad, the Gold Road or the Roseroad. The Lord Paramount of the Vale Lord Jon Arryn had made the greatest impression so far, bringing his Heir Ser Elbert and all the other branches of the Arryns residing near the Eyrie, and increasing furthermore his numbers with scores of young knights of high lineage like House Royce, House Grafton, House Melcolm, House Belmore, House Lynderly and House Redfort...

Of course, the runic armours, the falcon-shaped armours and the blue-white cloaks of the Eyrie were without doubt going to be outclassed by tomorrow. Ravens and young lads had come this morning informing the great delegation from the Westerlands was near and knowing Lord Tywin Lannister like he did, Steffon was intimately convinced the Lord of the Lions had not been cheap on the spending when he needed to exhibit the power and the might of Casterly Rock. The majority of the Westerner fighters camping near the capital were freeriders, hedge knights and warriors of little reputation, but they had nonetheless spread rumours of great and fierce men in golden armours coming to conquer the prizes agreed for the winners of the joust and the melee.

There were also day after day that the Riverlanders were coming behind young Edmure Tully, the Heir of Riverrun in formidable numbers. Steffon had read reports telling at least thirty Noble Houses, fifty Masterly and about two hundred Knightly Houses of the Trident and the Forks which were going to be participating one way or another. The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands knew hundreds of the famous Marcher archers were on their way to seize the honour and the gold the heralds had promised to the one winning the bow contest.

But it seemed that no matter what the Lords of the West and the Trident did, they were going to be forgotten by the formidable host which was coming from the South. The whispers that Lord Mace Tyrell was on his way had taken their time to arrive to the Council's ears, but when they had he like many had had difficulty to believe them. If the men he had patrolling along the Roseroad could be trusted, the Lord of Highgarden was marching north with a sizeable army of artisans, servants jugglers and merchants, transported more food and wine that should be needed for a city the size of Volantis and he had included in his endless ranks shining knights of incomparable grace mounted on steeds the like were never heard outside the tales and legends. By all accounts, they could not be more than two or three days away...and as one of the Lords supposed to oversee the transportation details, he preferred not to imagine the time it was going to take ferry these thousands Reachers from one bank of the Blackwater to another, even if they brought barges and small galleys for the Great Tourney.

Against these efforts, the disparate delegations of the Storm Lords arriving in small columns were easily forgotten. Not that there were the only ones, far from it. The Dornish delegation had already arrived but it was consisting of less than three hundred men and women. Prince Doran Martell had sent more excuses not to attend, and declared his brother Prince Oberyn would speak with his voice. The reputation of the infamous Red Viper being what it was, Steffon was hoping the man was not going to kill anyone during the tourney. The Dornish knights and fighters were still more numerous than the Iron Islands and the North added together. These two kingdoms had never stopped their complaints that tourneys were a meek way to honour properly their own gods. There were a few men from the lands of White Harbor, Barrowton, Pyke and Harlaw in the inns, taverns and whorehouses of King's Landing, but overall Houses Stark and Greyjoy were content to ignore it.

Apart from these two kingdoms however, the entire realm had taken pretext of this tourney to celebrate. The Long Summer was continuing; the maesters predictions that autumn could not be that far away had not been followed by colder nights, powerful winds or lasting rains and thus were generally ignored. There were some rumours of wars in the Disputed Lands and far away in the Dothraki Sea, but these conflicts did not impact the trade of the western and eastern coasts. Even the grave incidents with the wildfire fortnights ago had been mostly forgotten, the heretics being killed and dispersed without further bloodshed. The Brave Sons, the Quill Bearers and the rest of the Faithful were staying quiet, as a few of their leaders must have had the intelligence to tell them how bad for their influence 'religious incidents' would be in this time of feasting, popular contests and knighthood challenges.

And yet Lord Steffon Baratheon was not a happy man.

No, it had nothing to do with the Great Tourney...the reason was that he had summoned his sons to King's Landing for today, and unless his eyes were playing tricks on him, there was only man waiting for him near the black and gold tent raised for his personal use not far from the jousting fields.

"Stannis," he started with a voice dreading the answer to the question he was about to ask. "Where are your brothers?"

"Robert was...delayed at Felwood," said his second son, trying evidently to not say anything bad in public where every servant and unscrupulous ear could listen to their conversation. "Renly went to Grassy Vale. Both promised they would be back in time for the Tourney, father."

Steffon swore under his breath. His eldest and youngest sons were going to be the doom of him, unless King's Landing and its myriads of plots, conspiracies and fetid odour did not get him first. Silently, he entered his tent, moving his fighting arm to invite his cadet son to follow him.

Without a word, the Lord of Storm's End closed the canvas and he seated on a decorated chair created from the Rainwood forests. Stannis imitated him a moment later. Idly, he noticed his son was wearing a light blue tunic today. Delena's influence, no doubt. Stannis' wife was trying continuously to buy softer and happier colours for him and Steffon couldn't say this was a bad move. If Stannis had chosen his clothes by himself, then black and morose colours would have reigned supreme.

He opened a bottle of red wine from a Merryweather winery and poured its content in two cups before resuming the conversation.

"I see your brothers have completely ignored the commands I've given them." The Storm Lord remarked once the wine had refreshed his throat and somewhat smoothened the disappointment he felt in his heart.

"They tried their best, Father," affirmed his cadet son like he had predicted. Like always, Steffon could not help but feel proud how Stannis stood in defence of his brothers when they were absent. It was a pity the objects of his loyalty did so little to deserve it. It was a damaging thought assuredly, but it was alas the truth.

"If it is their best, my son, I would hate to see what their worst is." He remarked humorously. "The last moon we met together, I gave you and your brothers some commands. I did not ask to write a new holy book, reform entirely the tax organisation of the Seven Kingdoms or win a trade war with Braavos."

Although if he had ordered it, he had a feeling Stannis would have started the task on the same day and pursued it with the same determination and implacable will he always did.

"To Robert, I commanded to go back to Storm's End and stop neglecting his wife. He had also to resume the training our castellan had prepared for him. It was long time he stopped gallivanting from tourneys to brigand hunts and from melees to the whorehouses' beds."

Stannis openly grimaced once he had spoken the words. Good, he understood the magnitude of the problem. Robert was siring far too many bastards and had shamefully abandoned the education of his son and his daughter to others. Seven Hells, Stannis had taken more part in raising Morden and his second son had been away from Storm's End many fortnights these last years!

"I suppose this means House Errol has complained again, Father?" The voice of Stannis looked more resigned than surprised."

"They have." And for good reason, he didn't add. The union of Robert Baratheon and Erica Errol had been a political affair, of course. Storm's End had this way improved its relationship with the Noble House which produced the greatest amount of corn in the Stormlands. House Errol was the granary of the lands he ruled. Lord Sebastion – and to be honest his deceased mother Lady Shiera – had become more and more powerful as the years of winter never came and they stored the equivalent of months of harvest reserves. Keeping the House of Haystack Hall happy was becoming more and more important as the seasons would unavoidably change once more. And Robert was siring his bastards right and left, visited Storm's End merely once or twice per moon and ignored as best as he could Erica...

"They have," he repeated, stopping his thoughts before his anger at the stupidity of his eldest' actions grew out of control. "You have done an impressive work mitigating the damage, but Morden and Elenei needed their father and Lord Sebastion wanted Robert to prove he could be a good Lord Paramount when the time came."

Well, the Lord of Haystack Hall had his answer now. As did the rest of the Stormlands, at the moment he was speaking. Robert could be charming, invincible in melee, an excellent hunter and train to be the incarnation of the Warrior himself, but he would make an awful lord Paramount. That his wife had been forced to cut him access from the gold of their vaults by the time he was twenty name days old had been the first but not the last issue.

"I don't think Robert can stay with one woman for more than a couple of nights," Stannis said in an emotionless voice.

"Then perhaps he should have told me this fact when I described to him the most prestigious matches of the Stormlands and the Reach!" It was almost impossible to suppress his fury after this. It was Robert who had chosen Erica Errol out of five Noble Ladies. Yes, he had outright refused some matches – mainly the ones coming from too indebted and less ranked highborn – but Erica Baratheon born Errol was still a pretty woman and hardly a terror for her household! No, Robert had only looked at a wife because it gave him exciting nights...and now that she refused to sleep in the same bed as him, he had lost all interest in her.

Given the uncountable times he had returned from one of his 'adventures' with a new disease he had 'discovered' with another woman, Steffon didn't blame his daughter-in-law at all. The Father and the Mother knew that if he had tried the same thing with his wife, he would not have lived that many years!

Anger swelled in his chest and he drank two cups of wine to calm himself. When had he failed to stop his Heir on the path of foolishness and drunken debauchery? Maybe he should have refused the honour of becoming the Hand of the King...but Stannis had turned well, becoming a good husband for his Florent wife, and a good father for his three sons and his two daughters.

Maybe Robert wasn't simply suited for highborn duties. It had certainly happened more than once before...but it was hellishly inconvenient.

"What about Renly? I assume he did not travel to Tarth like we agreed."

Steffon had suggested the Heiress of Tarth as a possible betrothed for his third son, but he saw now that it had been a fool's endeavour. A simple look at a map of the continent could tell you Grassy Vale and the Sapphire Island of the Stormlands were separated by many leagues.

"I think he has a new lover somewhere in the Reach." The blue eyes of Stannis were thoughtful. "This is not the first time he is riding west. Fawnton, Tumbleton, Grassy Vale, Bitterbridge...the Stormlanders in these lands have seen him a lot this year and there are many rumours spreading."

The Lord of Storm's End sighed. As bad as Robert...activities were, they were not as politically damaging as Renly's. Personally, Steffon Baratheon couldn't care less if his son wanted to invite men in his bed. But the part in him which was completely devoted to the Stormlands was angry at the lack of discretion his youngest boy showed. The Faith had led hard campaigns in the countryside against all things they considered 'unnatural' and if Renly was discovered at the worst moment, the consequences would be disastrous for House Baratheon and his allies.

"A marriage would silence these rumours." Though there were other possibilities, one which had become more and more possible after Renly refused the young Ladies desirous to wed him. The Maesters, the Faith and the Wall – in his particular order of preference – did not require someone to sleep in the bed of a woman.

"I suppose..." Stannis did not appear convinced. "But he will leave as soon as the tourney ends, Father."

"Not if I don't pay for his armour after the jousting."

His cadet son narrowed his eyes as he drank from his cup and Steffon felt something unpleasant in his throat.

By tradition, if a knight lost against another knight in a joust, he lost his armour and the weapons he had used in this clash of arms to his winner. A ransom was then fixed by the victorious warrior, allowing the defeated to take back his shield, his plate and his lance –amongst other things – against a sack of gold dragons. Depending on the decorations and the smith who had worked on the steel, some defeats were the end of knighthood for poor hedge knights wearing the attire of their ancestors.

Until now, he had personally ransomed back Stannis and Renly's plates when they lost – though in Stannis' case, it was rarely necessary as the husband of Delena often made a good showing and won enough in the first rounds to compensate for his own loss. Robert preferred the melee and the contests of pure strength, and his charisma meant he had rarely to pay for his infrequent defeats. But Renly had not the talent for jousting, entered it every time and lost every time against Lords and champions which were not known to be great lances.

Maybe it was time for his third son to learn that the cheering of thousands smallfolk did not dispense him from doing his duty.

"Lord Tarth will have to be appeased." He whispered to himself. Evenfall Hall was not the most powerful fortress, and House Tarth was inferior to House Swann, Errol, Grandison or the Marcher Lords in status, but letting anger fester in the head of a loyal bannersman was not worth it. "Cleoden will be soon in age to marry and he has seen the Lady Brienne at Bronzegate four moons ago. If he is smitten with her..."

Stannis looked at him strangely like he could not believe he was serious or not.

"Father," his son said prudently, "the Lady Brienne told all her pretenders at Bronzegate they would have to beat her by lance or sword if they wanted to earn her hand. The woman is a demon with the sword and the axe, and after what she did to several young Knights, I don't think Cleoden is willing to fight for this prize..."

"Ah." Bah, this had just been an attempt to find a quick and easy solution to his dilemma. Now he would have probably to agree to some concessions with Lord Selwyn Tarth.

Why was the Games of Thrones so complicated?

* * *

 **Ser Patrek Mallister 2**

His cousin and future liege Myles had always been better at jousting than him. It was something he had recognised a lot of times in front of their friends, including Edmure, Karyl, Lymond, Jonothor, Lucas and Martin - amongst others. Oh, Patrek was not bad on a horse; he regularly dismounted scores of opponents when he visited castles from the Small Wall to the green hills south of the God's Eye. But Myles Mallister, his cousin and brother in all but name, was jousting like he had been born on a saddle. It was not the case of course - he had asked his father just to be sure.

No, it was better to acknowledge Myles was simply more gifted at horse-riding and as they were sensibly equals when they wielded swords and spears, Patrek was winning one bout in twenty when they trained against each other for the joust. He was doing a bit better in the melee, but not enough to really believe in his chances.

The Heir of Seagard was also wearing a new armour, grey with many silver eagles and an indigo helmet. Jousts sometimes were decided by the King or whoever was of highest rank, and it would be a lie to tell appearance was not playing a role. The shield with the Mallister arms was pristine and the long purple and silver lance was shining under the sun. If this had been a tourney at Riverrun, Raventree Hall or Harrenhal, Patrek would have bet one or two silver stags that the public would be behind him.

Unfortunately, today the Great Tourney was at King's Landing, and the uncountable number of knights present had incited the Great Lords presiding to organise as many jousts as they could before the sun set. As a result, the chances of victory on the fields hundreds of horses had trampled over and over depended on your skill...and the luck of the draw.

The latter had abandoned his cousin from the start, as he watched a young man in red and black wearing a dragon-shaped helmet at the other end of the list. Of all the possible opponents, Myles had to be chosen to tilt against Prince Aegon first and to say the smallfolk and the highborn girls on the stands were supporting the Royal family was grossly understating the situation. Moments before, the Kingslanders had watched the triumph of Ser Barristan Selmy over a Rowan knight, and now they demanded more.

"For Seagard!" He shouted but his voice was lost in a torrent of acclamations.

"AEGON! AEGON!" chanted the mass of men, women and children. Some were pushing so hard against the barriers that some Goldcloaks had to position themselves to stop this agitation.

"THE SILVER PRINCE!"

"AEGON!"

"TARGARYEN!"

It was a good thing they had to joust, because if it had been the people surrounding the fields who decided the outcome, Myles would have lost before he had the time to say 'Above the Rest'.

The trumpet sounded and the two cavaliers charged each other, their tourney lances gleamed against the sun. Myles position on his brown horse was excellent as always, but so was the one of his adversary. And then they struck at each other. For an instant or two, Patrek believed his cousin was going to achieve a draw, but while the Mallister-coloured lance broke against the dragon shield, Prince Aegon had swiftly delivered his blow against Myles' plate, evading the eagle protection. His cousin was ejected from his mount and received the 'honour' of being the third to taste the sun on this beautiful morning.

"Winner, Prince Aegon Targaryen!" announced the herald and the thousands of people surrounding the tourney grounds went wild. Clearly no advice from the Hand of the King watching the competition was necessary this time, Myles had lost fairly.

The silver-haired prince saluted lengthily his supporters, but Patrek's eyes were fixed on Myles, who was standing again but with the help of two Mallister armsmen and a large grimace on his face once he removed his helmet.

He dearly wished to see if Myles was fine, but his own tilt was about to begin and he was already fully equipped in plate armour. By tradition and custom, only the squires and the men-at-arms entered the fields to carry back their masters and their possessions. The place of a knight on a tourney field was on his horse or it was not to be present at all.

The next joust was boring, Renly Baratheon got dismounted easily by a no-name from the Vale, Hugh, Hugor or something like this. Then it was his turn.

"Ser Patrek Mallister of Seagard against Ser Wader Frey of the Twins!"

The Warrior may have smiled for him and not Myles today, for his opponent was easy to knock down. Big-boned and with an armour which looked too big for him, Walder Frey was agitating his weapon like he was ruling over a windmill. His white horse looked deeply unhappy to bear his weight and Patrek idly demanded himself what sort of knight would consent giving the 'Ser' title to someone who had obviously not the qualities for it.

The trumpet sounded again and he and the Frey knight charged each other. Like he had expected, Walder Frey was a pathetic opponent and he didn't bother feinting or trying one of his new moves. There was no need to. In fact, Patrek had to target fully in the chest his joust opponent because the idiot had badly tightened his helmet.

His purple lance struck true and Walder Frey for a small turn of hourglass seemed to fly over the field before landing in an ungracious crash. He received a fair share of applause, although the smallfolk seemed to be more eager to mock the Frey and laugh at the spectacle the weasel provided. Walder was squealing like a pig as he waited immobile on his back and the men who had come with him from the Twins were trying to extricate him from his armour.

"You got quite lucky, cousin," told Myles, once they met at his tent. "This weasel couldn't joust against a dwarf riding a sheep."

"Lord Walder Frey is getting desperate if he authorises this moron to enter a tourney." Both young Mallisters chuckled and emptied a few cups of wine. "The next tilts are not going to be so easy, I fear."

The following events proved him right. Nevertheless, after winning against Walder Frey the long wait began. With so many knights and famous riders wishing to win the privilege of naming the Queen of Beauty, hundreds of jousts happened and this was only the beginning, the luck of draw eliminating as many aspirants before the second and third day. Mertyns, Melcolm, Bracken, Brax, Banefort, Algood, Cafferen, Connington...the number of Noble Houses which saw their Lords and Heirs beaten was huge.

Ultimately, the sun had long passed its zenith when Patrek was called back. His second opponent was...another Frey. At least this time, it was not a Walder: the name of his opponent was Hosteen. Not that this son of Lord Walder was extraordinary skilled in handling his horse, but at least this knight looked like he knew the direction he had to point his lance – a great satisfaction for the spectators and the herald, he was sure.

Patrek beat him all the same, though he feared for an instant there would be a second tilt as Hosteen Frey desperately tried to remain on his force before finally being thrown on the ground. He received some applause for it, but the cheers were really lukewarm. Many Riverlanders in the public were always happy to see one Frey put back in his place, the rapacious taxes of Lord Walder had created him plenty of enemies. But this was not in any way great jousting, and this was what the Kingslanders and the army of Reachers watching the tourney were after. Meagre silver light, the two weasels would have to buy back their plates and since the Twins coffers were filled with silver, Patrek should get a good sum.

His third adversary was decided not long before sunset and this was the moment Patrek knew his luck had ran out.

It was Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard.

"Try to break a few spears with him, the Lion is a prideful animal," advised him Myles before entered the field for the third time.

But by the winds and waves of Ironman's Bay, Patrek didn't see how it was possible. In his golden and white armour, the son of Lord Tywin Lannister was riding like he was the Warrior himself and his skill with the lance and the shield was so perfect Patrek doubted Myles or any young knight of the Riverlands could equal him before a decade.

"Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard against Ser Patrek Mallister of Seagard!"

He pushed his horse to full gallop and tried his best...but Jaime Lannister was too fast, too swift. His shield was not raised in his time, and before he had the time to avoid the somersault it was already over, with his eyes watching the sky and his horse abandoning the race once he was no longer on it.

Fortunately, he could stand on his own, he didn't think there was anything broken from his head to his feet. His wounded pride and the deception however...a lot of wine cups were drunk that night with Myles.

"These Kingsguards are demons," he moaned a hundred times to Myles and the rest of their friends. He knew he was complaining too much but what else what he supposed to say as they emptied barrel after barrel with scores of other knights defeated in their first tilts. It was a far better atmosphere than when they had hunted the heretic near Hag's Mire – in pure loss they hadn't found him – but there was regret and the same of defeat in their group. Six Kingsguards had entered the field at dawn –one had to guard the old King in the Red Keep he supposed – and six had left at dusk unvanquished, their opposition routed and lying in the dust. "What are they not guarding the Royal Family and letting us earn some glory?"

There were murmurs of approval and as the night went on, there were joined by Riverlanders, Stormlanders, Reachers and Kingslanders. There were a lot of toasts raised for the King, the Princes but this was more for politeness' sake than true royal fervour. They were all disappointed, being thrown out on the first day of the tourney was hard to swallow. About half of the knights able to speak boasted and shouted how they were going to demolish everyone in the melee, Kingsguard or no Kingsguard, Great Lord of free-rider. Girls were kissed, a bard began to song an old tale of adventure and five fair maiden. Glory and five thousand gold dragons waited for them, why were they waiting here around a bonfire?

The blackness was everywhere and soon he wasn't able to think or see clearly...

A terrifying headache woke him up and before he had the time to utter something, a bucket of cold water was thrown to his face.

"Hey!" Patrek protested before stopping as he saw this one of the sworn swords of his Lord Father. It was hard to stay awake but somehow he managed to stumble around in a tent which wasn't his – how he had reached this part of the camp used by the Stormlanders, he hadn't the slightest idea.

The cold water was harsh but helped him clarify his thoughts faster, allowing him to realise it wasn't dawn yet. The night they had started in a celebration wasn't over. What he had taken for suns when he was half-dead were in reality torches by the hundreds lighted from the Blackwater to Stokeworth – or so it appeared to his eyes.

His ears were ringing, and for a time Patrek didn't understand what was happening. A new dose of cold water on his face and his head was enough woken up to know the problem was not coming from him but from King's Landing. In the distance, the great bells were ringing, a sinister sound which crawled on his skin like an unpleasant nightmare.

"What is happening in the name of the Seven?" He demanded to his Riverlander guide once they tried to march back to their tents.

At such a late hour – or an early one, the Hour of the Wolf was long past certainly – there should have been only a few servants and smallfolk working the fires, preparing the next meals, some smiths and squires repairing in haste the damaged armours and lances of their masters. Instead hundreds of knights were swiftly forced out of their beds as their rest came to an end. Many were donning their armours. There were large columns of Goldcloaks and Baratheons men-at-arms running in every direction, giving imperious orders and pushing out of their ways drunken tourney participants. The large town built around the capital was woken in tumult and agitation...and nobody seemed to know why.

"The King is dead," the news left Patrek stare open-mouthed and it was only after a long silence he managed to say something, the only thing he could say in this circumstance.

"Long live the King."

* * *

 **Lady Lyanna Stark 2**

The altar room was silent and dark. Given the agitation in the streets, the Red Keep and the hundreds of tents around the capital, Lyanna had not summoned anyone to join her this time. It would have been reckless. The more people moved to a place they shouldn't be, the more questions the imbeciles and hypocrites of the Faith asked.

And they asked a lot in the first place, despite having no right to. The laws of King Maegor were supposed to have ended the presence of the septons and septas in the Game, but one could see the edicts were mere inches away from being ignored these days. It was frustrating, but not surprising. The Kings and their Councils ruling over the Seven Kingdoms were extremely skilled imagining laws that the majority of the highborn and the smallfolk ignored.

Lyanna removed the black cloak and the rest of the disguise she wore while climbing the last stairs and closing the large door behind her. The place was deep underground and no one absent her Slaaneshi subordinates was supposed to know it existed, but being the head of a secret and forbidden organisation meant you had to take precautions the rest of the world would characterise at the limit of paranoia. Yes, Miria was guarding one of the two accesses upstairs and no, none of her agents had been arrested today but with so many enemies circling around the Iron Throne but all it took was a word in the end.

The daughter of Rickard Stark removed her court robe to replace it by a long violet robe and lighted the candles on the altar by hand. She was largely able to do it with a simple gesture, weak winds of power or not, but for the communication she was about to establish it was best not to save her forces.

Her boots were removed and it was with her naked feet experiencing the cold of the stone ground she dragged a drugged Goldcloak to the altar. The man was one of three bodies they kept in magically-induced coma for cases like this. It was not difficult to grab them – the thieves and smugglers of Fleabottom were more than happy to get rid of these corrupt nuisances – and their unpopularity made sure there were not many investigations in the aftermath. Rapidly, she dissipated the sorcery surrounding the fat and stupid guard, waited until his eyes opened...and then plunger her dagger in his throat, savouring his terrified expression as blood started to pour from the lethal wound.

Some additional stabs were struck. The sacrifice's blood was now soaking the altar's eight-pointed star. Ancient words of power were said, lowering the temperature of the room and devouring the soul of the Goldcloak. A lot of blood rose magically to form a vaguely humanoid figure. The last incantation was spit more than spoken, but she made no mistake and no chaotic disruption was observed.

"Lyanna," for the first time in moons, she heard the voice of her brother. "You were not supposed to make contact before three days."

Deep inside, Lyanna felt shame and anger. She had been sent south to sow the seeds of discord between the Kingdoms and while it could be argued she had done exactly that, the last part of her plans was now in ruins. Just because Aerys has chosen this moment to drop dead of old age.

Now the Brave Sons were screaming heretics were behind the death, the assassination attempts she had prepared on Mace Tyrell and the Hand of the King were now nearly impossible to pull off and every septon nearby was calling for a crusade. If she didn't know any better she would have suspected them to have killed the old fool, but in all likelihood they had just known of his failing health and prepared their 'faithful' for this moment.

There was going to be a crusade against the North but it was going to be a far more united one than they had planned for. Her sorcerers and the invasion hosts were going to have to strike hard and fast if they wanted the Black Crusade to be successful.

"I have bad news for you, brother. War has begun." Lyanna grimaced. "Everything is not going as planned."

* * *

 **Author's note** : And at long last, peace is over for Westeros. The machinations of Chaos and the Faith have finally ended the long period of peace known as the Long Summer. Now, it is going to be the time of swords, great battles, magic and massacres.

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	6. The Drums of War

**Chapter 6**

 **The Drums of War**

 **Asha Greyjoy 3**

Fortunately, the Northerners had built baths at Bloodsteel Motte. By the black winds of the Storm God, Asha had really needed one when the grey direwolf had stopped licking her.

Of the evening and the night she spent in the ancestral fortress of House Glover, Asha knew she would not remember a lot save the essentials. Bloodsteel Motte had not been built like a Southron or an Ironborn castle. It was a fortress and a place to muster troops. Where they should have been grand tapestries on the walls, the Northern masters of the stronghold had placed weapons taken from their enemies' dead hands. There was relatively little gold, silver or gemstones in the decoration. The hall and the gates had many bright red runes. Ancient skulls were also delivering a grim warning. The few jewels she could see men and women wearing were all shining with strange lights. The three existing towers were protected by several ballista and scores of warriors. In one word like in ten, Bloodsteel Motte was breathing war, not surprising since the citadel was devoted to the worship of the God of War and Blood.

As Victarion squadron's sails had disappeared in the Bay of Ice, Asha had accepted the drops of blood, the bread and the salt handed by Ethan Glover and convinced Brigit and the score of Pyke armsmen sent by her Lord Father to do the same. When it came down to it, this was the sole protection the Ironborn had now in these strange and unknown lands. Asha knew she could wield an axe better than half of the reavers in the Iron Fleet, but her weapon was not going to save anyone if three hundred warriors in plate decided her skull needed to be added to their war trophies.

Asha did not sleep well that night. Her Lord Father and her uncle had decided it was fine to abandon her there and though she had known this moment would come for over a moon, it had still stung in her heart and her head. How nice of the Lord Reaper and his preferred sons to make their plans in the upper levels of Pyke and the rest of the family to endure the consequences of their will.

Drums sounded at dawn and Asha went to the dining hall, where she found Arya Stark waiting for her, masticating a large piece of bread with salted meat. The words of greeting over, the young Stark girl went straight to the point.

"We are leaving this morning," the granddaughter of the Lord Paramount of the North declared in a manner that was more command than suggestion. "The winds are calm over the Wolfswood."

"You speak like this is not a good thing."

Arya Stark nodded gravely. "The Gods are rarely letting their power wane over these woods. I can't feel it, but I think a big storm is coming to mark the end of summer. You and I need to go to Winterfell before it breaks out."

"I have no horse to ride," she reminded the sister of the man she was due to marry once they arrived in the seat of power built by the Starks centuries ago.

"We brought several mounts from Winterfell," countered the Northern girl. "Just be careful, our horses bite."

The way Arya Stark grinned confirmed that yes, the Northerners had a sense of humour...and that Asha really, really didn't want to be bitten by her courser.

"You also need to wear a complete suit of armour," the grey eyes were ones who had already taken lives and known bloodshed. "No Host will attack us, but the woods like the rest of our lands can be deadly to the non-initiated. If they have any sense, your escort will do the same."

The undertone of her interlocutor was not subtle in letting her know the reavers of Pyke were not high in her esteem.

By the time she had eaten and donned the armour she had used for her raids – a simple set of black metal with a golden kraken on her chest – the Stark escort was ready to depart. When she saw them in front of the gates, the captain of the _Black Wind_ recognised several of the men who had been part of the welcoming party.

It was a very diverse group: the ordinary warriors in leather and furs with swords, axes, masses and small shields were the most numerous, but there was also one man with brilliant green robes and large sceptre, half a score of tall and threatening black-armoured cavaliers in plate and radiating danger, two chariots decorated in pikes and skulls and last but not least, the big direwolf of Arya Stark. And yes, the big tongue was half-way out of the maw, ready to lick once more if given the authorisation.

"Everyone is accounted for?" asked the Stark girl after mounting her great carnivorous pet.

To Asha's annoyance, it was not the case and it was her escort who was the cause. Brigit, being a proud daughter of Hagen's daughter had come in her reaver armour making her an enticing vision of beauty and violence, but there were four men missing and those who had come had bloodshot eyes, half-asleep faces and smelled like they had bathed into a tankard of ale.

 _By the waves and the winds of the west, what I have done to deserve these idiots?_

It took a fair amount of time to find the latecomers, one of them still being unconscious in the bed of a woman who was certainly not his wife. But once everyone was there, Asha mounted on the warhorse she had been given – a great brown steed looking at her with troubling intelligent eyes, Arya Stark gave the signal of departure and they left Bloodsteel Motte behind.

The ride was not exactly pleasant. There was a true road under the hooves of the horses and the paw of the direwolf, but Asha had not ridden a horse this year or the year before that and it showed. The Iron Islands had never been famed for their cavalry; most of the horses they had were small, famed for their resilience and endurance to cross uneven terrains without flinching. Against the famed chivalry of the green lands and their mighty coursers, the Iron Islands mounted force only chance to win would be to let the greenlanders laugh to death.

The timid sun was at its zenith when the road truly entered the Wolfswood. Beforehand, they stopped to hear Arya Stark and the warning she wanted to give them.

"The Wolfswood is no ordinary place." Dressed on her grey direwolf and in grey-dark armour, the effect could have been funny but there was something in her stance which made even the stupidest reavers of her Lord Father stay quiet. "No Host has ever managed to claim this forest as theirs and the power of the Gods is strong under the leaves. Time can flow differently, and while the Host of Instigation launched a Purge last year, there are many beings born of sorcery and divine favour waiting for travellers to pass by."

Arya Stark smiled, and the familiar smirk was directed at the Ironborn.

"You have the protection of House Stark until you arrive at Winterfell. Do not think this means you are safe in the Wolfswood. Stay on the Wolf Road. This paved path has been enchanted by House Stark sorcerers and is blessed by the Gods. If you leave it, you are fair game for anything and anyone wanting to test your mettle.

Stay on the Wolf Road. If you leave it, no one save Lord Stark may be able to find you again and the Lord of Winterfell has far more pressing duties than searching the Wolfswood for missing foreigners.

And in case, it is not clear, let me tell you a third time: stay on the Wolf Road, no matter what you see. You won't like the consequences if you abandon its safety."

And on this the direwolf rider entered first the very place she had warned them against. Her escort and the rest of the group followed.

In a few breaths, it was like they were entering into another world. On the right and the left, several ancient columns of stone were carved with red, blue, green or pink runes set the limits to the Wolf Road. The light of the sun decreased at an impressive rate and while their eyes had no difficulty see their surroundings, it was not a comforting scene. One by one the human sculptures and the pillars marking the edge of the forest disappeared and the trees were everywhere.

Neither Asha nor the Ironborn of her escort had ever seen a spectacle like this. By her own experience during her travels, anything which could be named a 'wood' had four or five main tree species in a given zone. According to the shipbuilders of Pyke who were always researching new locations to grab whatever materials they needed for the longships, this was dictated as much by the weather as the proximity from the sea.

The Wolfswood was not following this reality. Every time she turned her head, she was seeing a new species of tree. Under her very eyes, twice a tree fell mere feet away only for something vegetal to grow and try to take its place. It was impossible to guess what was going to be next. There were oaks and other centuries-old trees which had certainly been already old when the dragons conquered Westeros. And yet a few feet later they disappeared for a mass of shrubs and firs.

In these conditions, the road was a benediction if there ever was one. Past the first markers and the human constructions at the edge of the forest, there was nothing but the stone road to indicate they were not lost. There was so many bends she lost sense of the directions. At sea, she was an expert navigator. On land and in the North, she was unable to tell if they were marching north or south. Several times the road became a bridge as they went over small gaps in the landscape or large precipices. A long time ago Theon had asked her looking at one of the rare Northern maps kept in the library of Pyke why the Northerners had not built a castle somewhere between the lands of House Glover and House Stark. Now she knew the answer: they didn't need to. In this forest, it was possible to lose armies without a single trace to prove they had ever existed. Building a fortress was not necessary: all the Starks had to do was using one of their damned sorcerers to hide the road on a league or two, and any invading army would be lost.

Night was not far and Arya Stark was leading them at a harsh pace, but Asha had not seen a big clearing where it was possible to see the sun. Tall like three or ten men, the multitude of trees was still blocking the sun. Asha wondered for an instant or two how many fleets could be built with all this wood. Pyke and Saltcliffe among other islands had long cut every source of timber for their hulls, but the Stark and their bannersmen had clearly not that problem.

At last signal was given to stop for the day. Asha sighed in relief and tried not to wince when her feet touched the ground. Everything was dolorous, and the pain was coming from parts of her body she had no idea existed before today.

"I am ready to sell the Iron Islands for a good bed tonight," the daughter of Balon Greyjoy groaned.

One of the tall men in black armoured plate chuckled. Or at least Asha thought it was a chuckle. With the helmet hiding everything but the eyes, the sounders under the armour were distorted.

"Are there any villages in these woods?" asked one of the reavers.

"There are," replied one of the warriors covered in the furs of what looked to be a lion of the mountains. "If you know where to search."

"House Talonstark holds dominion over the southern Wolfswood," one of the warriors mounted on chariots had decided to join the conversation. "But they are far from this road. Forrester and the rest of the wooden clans are in the north. House Glover controls the western approaches and House Stark the east."

Asha remembered the maps of the North her uncle had let her watch in his library of Ten Towers.

"That leaves a great deal of lands unclaimed and unpatrolled."

Sea and storm, you could hide three times the population of the Iron islands under these trees.

"Unclaimed, yes," acknowledged the owner of the chariot with bright red barbs and a glowing skull. "Not unpatrolled. There are always youngsters trying to claim the wealth of the Kingswood and the Hosts mount regularly expeditions to purge the beasts and the esoteric results of the sorcerers."

"In this case, why aren't you -" there was no time for the Ironborn to end his sentence, as a sort of wood tendril from a nearby tree wrapped itself around his arm.

"DRYADS!" The shout came from several mouths at once and everywhere Northern warriors abandoned the tasks to prepare the camp and grabbed swords and shields. "TO ARMS! TO ARMS!"

The enemies were not stupid and realised after the first shout the moment of surprise was lost. The attack came from everywhere. Around the space the group had chosen to stop, half of the trees stopped being immobile and wood branches transformed in instruments of death. A small mist fell on the improvised battlefield. The Ironborn which had his arm immobilised by the monster was unable to do more than scream in agony when in a horrible noise his arm was ripped off from his body. The strike from one of the armoured warriors cut the tendril responsible but too late.

"USE FIRE AND STEEL!" Asha did not know where the command had come from, but there was no time to wonder. Her axe was in her fighting hand and with one strike she removed a wooden blade which would have surely removed her head if allowed to continue the move. One more strike and the head of the tree-thing which had tried to attack her was separated in two neat parts.

Asha breathed loudly...and her opponent rose once more. Fortunately, before she had the time to wonder what kind of nightmare it was, one of the Northerners plunged a torch into the hole which the monster used for a mouth. The result was...impressive. In an atrocious shriek, the murderous tree was a fire pyre.

"Dryads must be cut into very tiny pieces or set aflame," explained calmly the Northerner before going after a second monster.

"I would have been really useful to know before the battle!" She exclaimed.

"You don't want to us to hold your hand while you're at it?" scoffed the warrior hidden behind back plate. "The strong persevere, the weak die. This is the way of our God."

At two against one and a torch to burn the enemy, the next 'Dryad' had no chance and was quickly killed. The momentum of battle accelerating, Asha felt more and more disgust at the enemy. These Dryads were looking like the ugly bastard of a tree with a human, but with none of the beauty and qualities one gave to such species. They spoke, but it was not in a tongue she understood – the garbles, shrieks and screams they made were not something for a human mouth anyway.

By reflex, she seized one of the root-tendril which was burning on the ground and used it as a secondary weapon to complement her axe-work. In a few breaths, the battle became easier. The enemy was strange, but not invincible and once burned, they did not rise again. The tide of abominable trees reinforcing their ranks had also stopped.

Victory uncertain a moment before, was now no longer in doubt. A Dryad proved that in fact, even a wooden thing could know fear when a direwolf pounced on it. There was no shield wall, no cohesion from the Northerners. They fought individually or by two in a storm of violence...and yet in the chaos each monster which emerged from the mist was opposed by a warrior who had the skill to burn or hack it with an oversized weapon.

It was chaos obviously. But the tactics employed and the facility the Dryads fell on their blades told her chance had nothing to do with this. Arya Stark and her group exploited the smallest weakness of the Wolfswood monsters against them. The last Dryad in front of her lost the large branches she had used and was set aflame by three different torches. The mist was disappearing. The last Dryads, tree-monsters or whatever sorcery animating them – realised they were beaten and hastily decided retreat was a very acceptable thing.

Asha was about to jump in pursuit, but a steel fist covered in green sap was on her right shoulders.

"Don't," advised the Northerner she had fought sides by sides. It was at this moment she became aware the battle had already moved her several feet away from the road. Asha shivered and this was not from the cold. She couldn't remember leaving the camp. What in the name of the Drowned God was this damned forest? The glare she sent at the trees had fear in it. She was ashamed to admit it but it was the truth.

A man of Pyke didn't listen to the warnings of their guides however. The traditional battle-cry of House Greyjoy and the Ironborn was shouted with all the power of a reaver's mouth.

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!"

And the Pyke warrior disappeared in the yellow-green vegetation surrounding the battlefield. A few times she heard his shouts before silence returned.

"Idiot," the voice of Arya Stark behind her almost nearly convinced Asha to throw her axe once more. Turning her head, she saw the Lord of Winterfell's granddaughter had not a scratch on her. In fact, the owner of the direwolf Valkia did not look tired at all by this clash of steel and branches. "He is lost to us. We will never find his corpse."

This was uttered like a cold prayer. There was not an ounce of doubt in these doubts.

"Are there other surprises like this?" Asha demanded testily. Counting the man who had just tried to pursue the tree abominations, three Ironborn were no longer part of her escort. If skirmishes like this happened every day...

"Well, now you mention it...it's possible we annoyed a Skaven Seer on our outward journey..."

* * *

 **Eddard Stark 1**

Eddard was not in a good mood when he entered the command tent and the sight of Lady Jonelle Cerwyn strangling Lord Fyron Amber did not make him feel better.

"ENOUGH!" He shouted and when the Lady of the Host of Slaughter failed to obey his command, she received his fist in her face. Violently. Twice. Finally, Jonelle abandoned her grip on her opponent, her nose in a sad state but already healing thank to the blessings granted by her God.

"You will not murder each other in my presence," the Heir of Winterfell told in his best icy tone as the Slaaneshi massaged his throat with a deranged expression on his visage. "If you try this once more, I will personally rip your souls from your screaming bodies and ensnare them into a goat."

Slowly and reluctantly, the Khornate female warrior and the commander of the Host of Domination took their seats at the opposite corners of the tent. The distance separating them did nothing to calm the antagonism between the two, obviously. The two commanders were very much complete opposites: Jonelle Cerwyn was tall, not his height but close, she had tinged her hair in red and the red and black armour she wore let show her muscled skin tattooed by dozens of pulsing red runes. If her helmet was on, Eddard knew many would have mistaken her for a man and he wouldn't have blamed them. By contrast, Fyron Amber had an effeminate appearance. The Lord of Amber Hall in the north-eastern Barrowlands had purple lips, long black hairs and green eyes which seemed to fix a point nobody could perceive. His armour was painted like someone had thrown over several goblets of paint randomly on it. A large golden necklace was around his neck, and his fingers were full of rings proclaiming the glory of Slaanesh.

Turning back his head to the two other Host leaders in the tent, Eddard revealed what was going to be the order of the day, no make it the order of the fortnight.

"The senile fool on the Iron Throne is dead. The Southrons and their septons are screaming we have killed him."

While Westerosi south of the Neck always relied on the grey fools' ravens to give them the news across the realm the North had faster ways to know of the great events shaking the Seven Kingdoms.

"Is there any truth in their outraged mumblings?" The question came in a quiet whisper from Lord Bog Boggs of the Host of Disease. Eddard would have loved describing him, but unfortunately it was not possible. Or fortunately, depending on how you saw it. The tarnished green armour was sealed by green runes and the Boggs' own will. An aura of power and illness surrounded him, making clear the man hidden in this plate armour was terribly close to ascension.

"No," he admitted. "All the cults which operate in or near King's Landing have reported to tell us they didn't order his death. The efforts to see the troubled waters of the past have not revealed an assassin or a conspiracy to end the life of Aerys. Unless someone managed to obscure magic itself, it is likely Aerys died in his sleep of old age and the Faith is just trying to use his demise for their own goals."

"Amusing," stated Robin Flint of the Host of Destiny. The Champion of Tzeentch on the outside looked to be unremarkable, especially with the other three on the tent...until one figured the armour he wore had merged with his skin and there was third eye on the back of his head. "The South wants to fight us while we prepare our own Black Crusade."

"So the weaklings have still the stomach for war," Jonelle's disdain was evident.

"This is inconvenient," intervened Fyron Amber. "The plan was to sow the seeds of a great civil war before we invade. United, they are more dangerous. The Southrons are weak when they fight one-on-one, but they are a lot of them."

"True, but their lack of cohesion works in our favour." Boggs' voice was a murmur and everyone had to stay silent if they wanted to understand correctly his words. "The Reach and the Stormlands are far from the Riverlands and slow to muster."

"Perhaps, but we will still have to fight them," there was malice in Robin Flint words. "Their coffers are filled with gold and their knights will be eager to go to war. It has been so long since we went down south in Host-strength...they don't remember the harsh lessons we gave them. They will march and they will come with tens of thousands men."

"We will conquer the Riverlands in the name of the Gods," retorted Jonelle with the fervour expected from the berserkers of the God of War and Blood. "Let their armies come. I don't care if they are forty thousand or half a million. I will bathe in their blood and use their skulls to spread the worship of Lord Khorne from Casterly Rock to Tarth."

"Funny you talk of 'forty thousand' and 'half a million'," commented in a mocking tone the Slaaneshi, making the only woman of the assembly snarl in anger. "The trout can and will muster more than forty thousand alone. For the Arryns, raising thirty thousand warriors is not a great task."

"You don't say anything I am not aware," Eddard spoke before a new fist contest erupted between the martial Jonelle and the debauched Fyron. "I can even correct your numbers, if you are so fixed on them. By auguries, the cults we disseminated in their very castles, bribery and corruption, we know the Riverlands can probably gather between sixty and seventy thousand men if they are given the chance and are not invaded from every direction. The Stormlands armies are skilled but small; they will not be able to take more than forty thousand men from their hills and the Marches."

His eyes watched the Amber Lord again, aware of the hate the Slaaneshi worshippers had for the next kingdom he was going to speak about.

"The Vale can arm over fifty thousand, though they will need to keep a few thousands at home against the pirates of the Free Cities and the clansmen."

The next declaration was for Boggs: the followers of Grandfather Nurgle loathed the order of things in the South.

"Powerful but slow to muster, the Reach can afford to give the next best thing to one hundred and fifty thousand men if they are really dedicated to this 'White Crusade'."

And there were of course several kingdoms left to recruit troops in the name of the Iron Throne.

"The Lannister have the gold and the armouries to arm five and seventy thousand men. The Crownlands, having enjoyed several decades of peace, will probably provide their Targaryen masters forty or fifty thousand green boys."

"And they think Dorne will be on their side," added Robin Flint, his eyes changing colour each time he observed him. "That would add to thirty thousand to their gigantic Host."

"More than four hundred thousand men," whispered Boggs.

The number imposed the silence in the room for a few breaths...before everyone burst in laughter, cackle or grating rumble to signify their hilarity.

Yes, the Southrons could try to muster that many men in one size...but without boons for their pathetic 'Seven', their refusal to use the winds of magic save a few convents and their inexperienced Lords, they could not gather an army of such size in one place and stay on the defensive. They would starve first or bicker for supreme command endlessly.

"My father has decided to go himself to the Wall with the Grey Direwolves," Eddard spoke again and all hilarity disappeared instantly. "Four Hosts will go with him and protect our northern frontier."

"They will give us time to complete the conquests in the South," no one disagreed with Bog Boggs. The words, as distasteful as they were, had the uncomfortable merit of being the truth.

"Which Hosts will have to bleed for the Gods?" demanded Jonelle, the bloodthirsty part almost absent.

"The Honour Host of Lord Rickard Karstark, the Starvation Host of Lord Brandon Blackmyre, the Hope Host of Lord Damon Stormer and the Perfection Host of Lady Gilia Slate," he enumerated one by one.

Since the Grey Direwolves were Undivided in their allegiance and would be boosted by the numbers of House Blackfang near the Gift, there was one Host of each God to help the Night's Watch defend the Wall per the ancient oaths.

"Not counting the Night's Watch, the Free Folk and the other support troops in the Gift, roughly six hundred and ten thousand of our fiercest fighters will stop the invasions as long as it divinely possible."

In other circumstances, tying one-sixth of the North muster away from a Southern Crusade would have been unacceptable. Against the hordes of beastmen, skavens and other nightmares coming to besiege the Wall, there was no choice at all. And the real threat was coming behind them...

"The Wolf Lord gave me the duty of waging the war against the South," the three Lords and the Lady in front of him were suddenly far more interested by the turn taken by the conversation. "It is time for the Hosts to join the Direwolves of Ruin and remind our enemies the might of the North."

"Yes, my Lord," the reply came immediately from the four mouths. "What is your will?"

Eddard stood from his seat to unroll a recent map of the North, the Neck and the northern Riverlands. A lot of it was not drawn with precision: the lands ruled by the Starks were governed by winter, the Gods and the winds of magic and what was true one season often changed or disappeared from one decade to another. It was why the fortresses and sorcery towers were so important: the servants of the Gods were drawing divine protection in form of rituals and hundreds of blessed runes in order to avoid earthquakes, monumental blizzards and other disastrous events.

"My Host will depart Winterfell as soon as the Greyjoy daughter will be wed to my son." His subordinate commanders nodded in approval.

How Balon Greyjoy had managed to stay Lord Paramount for so long of the Iron Islands defied order and chaos alike, but it had offered them a gullible ally so Eddard wasn't able to complain.

"This will give us the time for the six remaining Hosts of Khorne and seven Hosts of Tzeentch to join me at Winterfell."

Most of them had already left their recruiting grounds and were on their way as he spoke. Glover, Magnar, Bole and of course Umber had wasted no time forging thousands of weapons and training for what promised to be a campaign of carnage and slaughter.

"The Hosts of Grandfather Nurgle and our beloved Goddess Slaanesh will gather at Moat Cailin. Lord Sinister has been warned of my intentions and will prepare an adequate baggage train with Lord Manderly."

Since the holy number of Nurgle was seven and Slaanesh used six respectively, this meant five Hosts of Life and Death and Four Hosts of Love and Hedonism were at his disposition – if he didn't count the hosts gathered around this tent.

"There are exceptions, naturally." The anticipation increased once more in the tent and divine energy surrounded the Champions. It had been a long wait, but the North was finally ready to crush the Andals once for all. "The Hosts you have here are to start their journey tonight down the Kingsroad. Howland Reed will wait for you in the Neck and provide you an escort of his personal crannogmen."

"The old devil isn't commanding anymore the Host of the Reaper?" For once Flint showed genuine surprise, although one had to be always prudent when it came to the followers of the Great Architect. Many were masters in the art of manipulating their interlocutors or lying to themselves.

Eddard nodded negatively. He did not show how much the situation had affected him. Howland was one of the few friends he truly had in his childhood, but his daughter had won handily the Scythe challenge to claim the leadership of the Host. Howland was still the Master of Greywater Watch, but it was not a good omen for the small crannogman's survival.

"Meera Reed is the new Lady of the Host and will lead it to war."

"A promising young warrior, this one," approved Boggs. "The blessed waters of Decay have forged a redoubtable weapon in her soul."

"Howland will provide you the disposition of the enemy forces waiting for you on the other side of the Neck," said Eddard, returning to the war situation. "Once you have done your offerings to the Gods, you will attack the 'Small Wall' this pathetic Faith Militant and Daeron have built on our frontier."

"It will be done, my Lord!" Fyron looked like he was going to masturbate at the announcement of the hostilities.

"How many siege engines can we take?" whispered Bog Boggs, the green fumes leeching his armour were becoming more corrosive and poisonous, giving the whole 'dangerous by his simple presence' a very good example.

"Each Host will have ten of the new Tyrant Cannons and one hundred halberd-slammers." These were the last inventions forged by the very inventive smiths feeding the furnaces of Winterfell. Ferocious smiles were shown on the three faces he could watch. "I want no misunderstanding: if by my arrival two of these pesky fortresses have not fallen, I will crush your skulls and feed your guts to the direwolf pack myself."

"There will be no delay, my Lord," assured him Flint. "By the feathers of the change-birds, the Southrons will perish under my sorcery."

"Are there any defences to be defeated first?" The question had come from the Nurgle Champion.

"House Sentinel and House Star control the best passes out of the Neck," the Heir of Winterfell answered after a short moment of reflexion. "I would be greatly pleased if Sentinel's Stand, Starshield and Cliff Fort are no longer there to stop us once my Host arrives. The Manderly galleys will be able to supply us by sea if House Cliffguard is no more."

"The Greyjoys are going to attack House Mallister on the other side of the Green Fork," noted Fyron Amber. "House Edgefaith of Edge Fort and House Strong of Mire's Point will not dare abandoning their walls to come to the rescue of their cousins. Do we attack the Freys directly?"

This time Eddard saw no reason not to smile widely.

"No," testing the Tyrant Cannons against the walls of the Twins would be interesting, he wasn't going to say the contrary. But there were other plans in the wings for this House. House Reed had waited over four centuries to avenge themselves, and Eddard wasn't going to deny them the chance to settle their old feud. "The Host of the Reaper has something _special_ in mind for them."

"Good," Boggs gurgled. "Lord Walder Frey must pay."

"There is one point which must be addressed before we march," declared the Slaaneshi with the finesse and the smile expected from one serving the Goddess.

"Yes," and for the first time of the day, Jonelle Cerwyn was agreeing with the Barrowlands Champion. "Who will command this army?"

An army on the small side – the number of fighting men and women at this muster was a bit less than five hundred and five thousand – but she had a point.

"No one in his tent," Eddard sighed as he watched their furious expressions. "What? You seriously didn't expect me to place one of your Hosts above the rest? I am certain that by the time you would be at Moat Cailin, my choice to lead your force would be dead and buried."

The lack of denials told him his move was more than justified. Jonelle Cerwyn would have been a charismatic leader, but the Slaaneshi would have tried to poison her a dozen times per day and stab her in the back...and Flint would probably have helped with esoteric wards and illusions.

"You can enter," he called in a loud voice and the tall figure waiting outside the tent entered. Like Eddard, the man was a Champion of the Undivided, a sword of the Four. "I believe you all know Jory Cassel, the Black Spear?"

Various mutterings told him they indeed were.

"My adjutant will lead you to the Riverlands and victory...you will obey his orders if you value your existences."

* * *

 **Tyrion Lannister 3**

The bells of King's Landing were ringing. That or he had drunk too much wine. Again.

It was difficult to raise his head for some reason. When his vision became less troubled, he realised quickly why. He was stuck under a barrel. Rectification, since he could read the engraving on the barrel and smell the odour of the alcohol it had contained, it was a barrel of red wine from Longtable...year 294 after the Conquest if he had to guess.

This was a good year for sure. The Longtable grapes were a bit too soft for him, though. By tradition, the Merryweather were sending their smallfolk harvest the grapes a few days before other Houses of their Reach province, resulting in a different taste...and better profits for their purses, since they were able to sell the barrels and the bottles well before the other wineries.

Thanks to whatever divinity watching on him, the barrel was empty and he could remove it on his own. It took him five attempts to stand on his own, and by this point his ears and the rest of his senses were back. The air smelled the powerful mix of ale, wine, wasted food, piss and shit which was reigning in the city of King's Landing for so long no one truly remembered how it had begun.

The bells rang again, proving once more this was not the pain inside his head. Seven Hells and Malal, when were they going to stop using the damn things? The septons had proclaimed the sacred bells must be heard for seven days. According to them, Aerys' soul had to find its way to the Seven Heavens or some idiot doctrine like this. Then there had been seven new days of bells massacring his ears.

"POD! POD!"

But the time to move around a table which was half-broken, he found his squire asleep with a huge ale cup. His poor squire may not be a virgin anymore where wine, ale and liquors were concerned, but he was really collapsing too quickly.

If he could trust his memory, the Payne boy had fallen apart after a mere two drinks! He would have to do better if he wanted to last in his company. King or no king, war or no war, Casterly Rock or no Casterly Rock, Tyrion was not going to stop exploring the fascinating points of life.

"Too bad my Lord Father is never trying to release his nerves like this," the dwarf chuckled, emptying what little liquid was left in a bottle he seized on the ground. The powerful taste of the Beesbury dissipated some of the tiredness in his little legs and arms.

"It's too bad he's not here to see this." Tyrion smugly said as he observed his surroundings. He honestly didn't remember all the details of the previous night, but judging by the final result it had been by the Father Above something to strike the hearts of cowards and quench his massive thirst.

The floor of the tavern he had used for this not-so-little celebration had many bottles and unconscious bodies on it. Tables were broken or overturned, there were cups everywhere and the participants had fallen asleep where they had lost their drinking contests or after a vigorous activity known as sex. Whores and servant girls had really not many clothes left to hide their non-existent virtue.

They weren't the only one to miss clothes, obviously. Why, Tyrion just realised he was missing some breeches and undergarments, which he found near two girls he probably had...a lot of fun with last night. The two girls, one blond, one superb red-headed creature, had certainly expressions of content on their asleep faces.

He had recovered all his affairs and presented a half-respectable appearance when the door of the tavern opened in full, revealing a man which could not be anything but a sellsword. The roguish smile, the assured posture and the lack of heraldry were particularly telling. A sympathiser of the Faith would have screamed in horror at the spectacle offered by the bodies and the dozens of bottle. A heretic would have asked to organise a second round.

"Lord Tyrion Lannister?" The man asked for the form. There weren't a lot of dwarves authorised to wear the gold lion on red of House Lannister. "I'm Bronn. Your Lord Father sent me."

"Ah, so he is ready to return to Casterly Rock?" There was for a moment or two a lack of understanding in his interlocutor's eyes and Tyrion felt something unpleasant in his throat. Two hundred gold dragons he was not going to like what was coming out this Bronn's mouth.

"Lord Tyrion," the drawl told him the sellsword was really not big on respect and kissing the shoes of the highborn, "Lord Tywin departed yesterday afternoon with your uncle and most of your family."

Tyrion grimaced. At that moment, he had not been in a whorehouse or a tavern. He had been making some inquiries about the state of the fleet in the harbour. He had also asked some questions. It may be a newfound clarity for him, but it was somewhat strange how quickly the Faith had seized the idea of this Crusade against the Northern heretics.

"I'm sure it was an honest mistake," inside he was sure it was anything but. "A hard ride and we can catch up with them."

The smirk of the sellsword told him this was not going to happen.

"I'm afraid Lord Tywin has different intentions." A large roll of parchment looking extremely pompous and official was handed to him. "Due to your extensive experience, the Westerlands have detached you to the new army the Crownlands are levying. You are now a Captain-Quartermaster, serving in the Fourth Grand Company of the King's army."

"If it is your idea of a joke, I can say it is not funny." Tyrion, in case anyone from Sunspear to the Wall was unaware of it, had no military experience save burning two nests of heretics. He had some gift with the numbers, but he had never participated in a true battle. But as he unrolled the parchment, the words of Bronn were repeated, with the large red lion seal and the red three-headed dragon accompanying him.

"I am to be your second," said Bronn, in a tone betraying his amusement. "My Lord."

"Fantastic," Tyrion replied. "This war is so going to suck."

* * *

 **Lord Steffon Baratheon 3**

How long did it take to see all your reforms and political efforts unravelled?

Steffon supposed that the maesters would write long treatises and debate endlessly on the question. There was no after all an obvious answer. Many laws of Jaehaerys the Conciliator were still obeyed today. Inversely, the rulings of Baelor had been rapidly forgotten the moment the King-Septon had held his last breath.

It was a sad admission his years in service of the Crown were more tending towards the latter than the former. He had forged nearly two complete decades of peace, a lack of hostilities so long Westeros had rarely seen it since the Conqueror united the Seven Kingdoms and for what? A King's death and one fortnight later, most of his accords and advices were thrown in the gutters of King's Landing.

Technically, he still was Hand of the King...for all the good it did. Not many Knights and Lords chose to remember it nowadays. No, the only thing everyone had in their thick skulls today was the word 'Crusade'. The taxes have brought millions of gold dragons to our coffers these years? Let use this money to pay more soldiers and supplies for our Great Crusade! Several secondary roads and bridges in the Stormlands need rebuilding? They will wait until the Crusade is over! The pirates in the Stepstones are a problem? Our fleets will deal with this vermin once we will have crushed the Northern heretic fleet during the Crusade!

The Faith had well-prepared their announcement, he had to admit. They had spread before the tourney encouraging rumours about the King's health, only to smash them cruelly and totally after the first day of jousting.

If someone was ready to believe Aerys had been assassinated, then Steffon was ready to sell him a fairly impressive lordship at the bottom of the Sea of Dorne. No, the man who had been his friend before his recent religious change had been old and at death's door. The septons had just made sure he would last long enough for the Lords and Ladies of the realm to be in the single place, and then they had revealed the 'assassination'. Pycelle and the other maesters had found no evidence of any poison or strike. But the Most Devout and their sycophants had had an answer all ready for this, hadn't they?

Sorcery. Every demand was answered by the same word. Bypass the guard, poison the King's soul, and become invisible to the Kingsguard had all been given the same method. Steffon personally believed the gall they had to put everything on a single word reeked of sorcery too, and maybe incompetence while they were at it.

But in the end, it was too late to stop the war from being declared. The new King was a bookworm, and had not dared challenging the Faith and four-fifths of his assembled Lords. The Crusade had been declared against the heretical kingdom of the North, and there was nothing he or the rest of the Council could do to stop it.

Varys had given him the latest reports this morning. The Crusade was right this moment the most popular event of the decade, and putting his weight against it would result in him being crushed and his House disgraced.

It was frankly sickening to see how badly he had misjudged most of his bannersmen and fellow Lords. These men had peace, prosperity, order, full granaries and people happily living their lives in growing villages and hamlets. They had enjoyed the longest summer in existence. They had the opportunity to love, eat and drink all their content.

They had renounced it the moment the Faith asked for a crusade. Steffon was not the Master of Whisperers. He had not the huge maze of informants and spies, but he had enough resources to know most of the loudest voices didn't care about the Faith or the favour the Mother could bestow upon them.

They all wanted war. The Lannisters were eager to carve new lordships for their cadet branches in the North. The Stormlords wanted to prove their new generation could trample Northern corpses as well as the Dornish. The Tyrells wanted to convert the great kingdom which had refused to convert to the Seven. The Tullys wanted a permanent raid to the raids who had forced Hoster to give a daughter to the Northern barbarians.

Whether Aerys had been assassinated or not, this was just the point they had asked for to get the rust off their ancestral blades.

And so he watched with his old eyes the tents of the tourney – which now had become the tents of the Crown war camp - grow anew to accommodate the hundreds of retainers and warriors arriving day after day.

"Five hundred and twenty thousand, I think" the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands said, lowering his Myrish spyglass.

"A bit more, Father. I would say twenty-two thousand," corrected him his cadet son. Stannis' face was looking dubitative. "There are a lot of young fools and green boys from the Crown farmlands there."

"They should not be there." These boys should be thinking about kissing a girl or two before they came back in their parent's houses, not volunteer as foot soldiers because they wanted to impress their friends or a pretty face.

"Yes, Father," Stannis was not greeting his teeth, but he was not far from there. "What good can this host of green boys can do? Half of this host wouldn't recognise the pointy end of a sword even if I used one to stab them. One in three will likely die in their first charge when battle is joined."

"This is just one of the many hosts which are mustered across the realm," affirmed tranquilly the old Lord.

"And I'm sure the other armies are as green as this one is," countered his son. "Father, our sworn swords of Storm's End and the archer of the Marches have not fought more than the occasional pirate hunt or isolated bandit groups. Going against the North is going to be an entirely different affair, especially in autumn."

Steffon nodded, hiding the grimace he wanted to make. It was not yet the gossip of the court, but summer was over, at the same time this year three hundred years after the Conquest was ending. It had not become noticeable too much for the present: the temperatures were a bit colder, the eastern winds more powerful but the autumn rains were only a question of days now.

Autumn was coming...and winter was not going to be fair either. At best, they had a couple of years to wage war before the fury of the elements rendered road impracticable.

For the thirtieth time of the day, Steffon cursed the septons and this scummy buffoon of Luceon. The Faith understood nothing when it came to war, and he knew very well the north was not going to see their banners and bend the knee peacefully while the Crusaders destroyed their culture and their kingdom.

"We have still the advantage in numbers. Mace Tyrell has promised two hundred thousand men. Tywin Lannister seventy thousand men, Edmure Tully fifty thousand..."

Stannis snorted.

"Mace Tyrell should stay at home lest we realise he can't don his armour anymore." This was a good point, the Master of Highgarden belly was...significant.

"Well, we should have enough to crush the fifty thousand the North can muster." His son didn't voice his disagreement. "I trust everything is ready for your departure to Storm's End?"

"Yes, Father," there was only grim acceptance in his son's eyes. Steffon understood it, but there was little chance he could change his mind on the subject. Robert had rushed immediately to Bronzegate the moment the call for arms was heard, and Renly had run eastwards to the eastern Reach, perhaps Tumbleton or Bitterbridge.

Since he was busy preparing the Crown army for the Crusade and his two other sons could not be trusted when duty called, Stannis had the inglorious task of staying at home and training the replacements of the men who would never come back from their Crusade campaign.

"How many do you think you can spare from the Bronzegate army?" Since Stannis was the Lord of Storm's End in all but name these last years, it was he who had the best idea of the numbers involved.

"One thousand for Storm's End, two thousand for the other forts and defences," His second son replied. "More would attract questions and suspicions from our friends of the Faith."

"Suspicion I can accept," but failure would be far more damageable. "I don't want to go northwards and hear our lands are under attack by the Lysene or a coalition of pirates." Not that there was much difference between the two, of course.

"Three thousand men will not stop Essossi if they land one of their big sellsword companies on our shores."

"No, but hopefully it should give us the time to turn our cavalry around and attack them in the rear."

Stannis didn't protest, but he knew as well as him how unlikely this was to happen. For all the tales of proud knights and princesses saved at the fatidic moment, armies rarely arrived in time to a battlefield.

* * *

 **Lord Rodrik Harlaw 1**

The Great Hall was large. In previous circumstances, Rodrik had often marvelled how much arrogance the builders of Pyke had in their hearts to build such a monstrosity. The Lord of Harlaw was ready to acquiesce Pyke was no Harrenhal; but that left plenty of margin because Harren the Black had had an ambition sufficient for a thousand men of lesser birth.

Ten Towers was a new castle, more comfortable and larger what had been built before on the island of Harlaw. Yet its hall was only a fourth the size of the hall where the Seastone Chair happened to be placed.

It was no longer a Great Hall now. Not since the official kingsmoot which had just been celebrated at Pyke.

No, it was a throne room once more. And for the first time he had come to Pyke in all his life, Rodrik was in a crowded place. Great Captains and simple reavers had been invited. Old warriors and young men were side by side. The great tapestries of legendary reavings had like by magic reappeared on the walls. There were dozens of servants leaning on the walls, and several thousands of guards to prevent any bloody incident. It was a great number of people...but it was nothing compared to the thousands more awaiting outside due to the lack of sufficient space. Not that they represented the sum of the Ironborn population: the Bay of Lordsport was black, black of the hundreds of longships and their black sails which had sailed to obey the word of their liege.

For the Iron Islands had a king once more, and the times of peace, subservience to the Iron Throne and tolerance were over.

"Rejoice," rumbled Victarion Greyjoy, who had never looked more massive and bulky in his black plate armour. The plastron was decorated with the golden kraken of his House and in his large fist was the grand banner of his brother. "For a new age is upon us. After three hundred years, the Ironborn are free again! Glory to King Balon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands, Sovereign of Salt and Rock, Son of the Sea Wind, Captain of the Great Kraken and Lord Reaper of Pyke!"

"GLORY TO KING BALON!"

Axes were raised in the air. Powerful voices screamed their joy. Acclamations were heard from every rank of the assembly. The guards hit the floor with the hamper of their spears, long axes or halberds. Men and women clapped their hands in applause as far as he could see. Upstairs, before and behind him, every Ironborn had only one word in his mouth.

"BALON! BALON!"

Step by step, the elder Greyjoy advanced to finally face the sonorous assembly. But Balon didn't seat on the Seastone Chair. His voice boomed in his throne room.

"IRONBORN!"

One by one, the voices fell silent. This was the voice of a great leader and the man they had elevated to kingship. For all his defaults, at this moment Balon Greyjoy was the personification of the great reaver, returned from a thousand reavings with wealth and victory in tow. The blood of king-captains and conquerors flowed into his veins. He was the one who was going to lead his people to war in his black armour, the long sailor cape clapped on his shoulders and the driftwood crown posed on his head.

"For too long, we have bent the knee! For too long, we have listened to the Targaryens and their worthless laws! We have been patient! We have endured while they were ignoring us and gorging themselves of the wealth of the Seven Kingdoms! But no more!"

"NO MORE!" The acclamation was repeated with a quasi-religious fervour.

"The Iron Fleet has been rebuilt! We have now the greatest fleet of Westeros!" More shouts of approval were heard and stopped at a sign of Balon's hand. "The greenlanders are weak and their eyes are fixed on the North. They figure that once they will have dealt with these 'heretics' not worshipping their precious Seven, they will beat us down and force to join our prayers to theirs."

The expression on the new King's visage was predatory.

"I say they are wrong. I will not wait for these useless pansies who have never wielded an axe in their life to decide the destiny of the Iron Islands! If they want a Crusade...then by the Drowned God we will give them one to remember!"

"BALON! BALON!"

"All over the coasts, thousands of greenlanders are building their galleys to begin a war of summer! I say we sink half of them and take the rest for our fleet!"

If the previous comments had the Ironborn's approval, this one put even more blood thirst and excitation into the assembly.

"We will strike Lannisport first," announced the Lord Reaper of Pyke. "We are going to remind the Lannisters why the Kraken must be feared. We will sack their golden city and destroy their naval power for ten generations!"

"LANNISPORT WILL BURN!"

"We will take Seagard as the Northern armies crush the trout! Like in the Hoare Conquest, the rivers will be red with the blood of the Trident men!"

"DEATH TO THE BETRAYERS OF HARREN!"

"But we will not stop after annihilating the Mallisters! The Arbor! Oldtown! Highgarden! Soon the entire Reach and its fortune will belong to us! Like in the Age of the Grey King, the sails will scream our name for all eternity!"

"THE IRON KING! THE IRON KING TRIUMPHANT!"

Turning his head to Balon's right, the Master of Ten Towers saw his nephew Rodrik grinning. Balon's Heir had one of his hands directly on the breasts of his future Northern wife. Saara did look pleased, though with the kind of immoral red dress she was wearing today, it was hardly surprising. The young woman was beautiful, but she inspired dread in him and not just because she was a sorceress.

"TO THE SHIPS!" This time Balon had to shout for his voice to be heard in the chaos of hundreds of voices. "THE WIND IS WITH US! THE IRON CRUSADE CAN BEGIN!"

The roar which followed made Rodrik glad the first Lords of Pyke had built solid for the ceiling shook under the formidable war cry.

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE, BUT RISES AGAIN HARDER AND STRONGER!"

* * *

 **Asha Greyjoy 4**

Asha was never going to admit it sober, but she was happy to leave the Wolfswood.

The journey in this endless region of trees had not been her idea of a nice ride. As amusing as it was to see the escort her 'concerned' Father had given her be decimated by various monsters, Asha knew she might have been one of the missing Ironborn after each skirmish. The Northern woods had never heard of the word 'mercy' and at several low points Asha had been almost convinced the lands were trying to challenge every fighter and non-fighter which had the temerity to walk through this road.

The first day had been without incident save the Dryad attack. The second had been worse. The Dyads had returned with reinforcements and had attacked twice, using the same methods of the previous day. Two more Ironborn had been lost as well as a single Northerner. The third and fourth day had seen the appearance of carnivorous flowers and trees. The morning after, the direwolf Valkia had warned them early on of an enormous shadowcat's presence. Perched on the branches of a centuries-old oak, the incredibly huge feline could have decimated them in one jump and even then one of the Greyjoy warriors had succumbed to his wounds. Arya Stark had profited from the occasion to skin the black pelt of the shadowcat, saying it would make an excellent blanket for her couch. A part of Asha's mind wanted to salute the practicality of this decision. The other part insisted these Northerners were crazy.

The depths of the Wolfswood had sheltered many horrors. Fortunately, many of them appeared to be actively against each other. Several times they had seen hordes of giant rats – the Starks and their warriors called them Skaven – and the next these aberrations were dead, blasted by sorcery or phantom armies emerging and disappearing from the shadows. The eighth day, giant spiders had been their opponents only to be attacked in the rear by 'beastmen' and a great pack of wolves. It had been the latter who had emerged victorious, and perhaps intimidated by their larger four-legged cousin, had left after feasting on the corpses.

So yes, seeing the runes marking the limit between forest and not-forest was a relief. She was still alive, but save Brigit, the other Ironborn had perished or were wandering somewhere in the Wolfswood without any way to exit it.

And Arya had insisted this was the Wolfswood in a calm and orderly year. Storm and waves, Asha really didn't want to see what it looked like when the denizens of these dark foliages were at war.

"How close are we to Winterfell?" She demanded to Arya as the last trees were behind a series of dark green hills were in front of them.

"We should be there before sunset," affirmed the Stark girl before changing her words when she looked at the sky. "If there's a sunset, of course...our sorcerers are busy darkening the sky."

"Lovely," what else could she say? The cloud colours were absolutely unnatural. Dark blue, red, purple, green and other shades she didn't have precise words to describe were shifting faster than she had the time to observe them. The survivors of the column formed a double column, and for the first time the Northern horses were able to truly prove their worth.

The air was far colder than the climate they had enjoyed near the Glover fortress. It was surely not cold enough for a snow fall, but it was close. If the fields and the air became colder, she was going to need more fur.

It didn't take long to see Winterfell in the distance. At first, it was a blurry shadow in the distance. But after climbing one more hill and reaching a point where the stones of the road suddenly turned a deep black, she was able to watch the ancestral citadel of the Starks.

Because that what it was: a citadel. There were still at least three leagues of ride, but there was no way to miss the three great circles of black-grey walls encircling the hill unless you were blind.

Huge towers with barbicans and portcullis, sizeable curtain walls and a deep moat where a sort of red substance was flowing like water. One look at it and you could tell it was a fortress built for war. Pyke was simply not holding the comparison. Each section of the walls was covered in arrow slits and murder holes. On top of every tower and at prepared interstices in the walls, the dreaded shapes of siege engines could be imagined. To make it more impressive, runes were scintillating in unnatural lights. For them to be seen three leagues away like this, they must be thousands of them.

It was a good confirmation an invading army would not have only to take the walls from mortal defenders; sorcery and monsters would also certainly be part of the garrison. A guess supported by the formidable dungeon in the inner circle of the defences. The black tower was so elevated it was almost touching the clouds accumulated in the sky. Four lesser towers of the third circle of walls surrounded it, although one looked like a titanic tree of an unknown species.

On the vast black bridges and black roads leading to the capital of the North, there were thousands of people on the march. Some were undoubtedly civilians, but hundreds were not, the familiar spears, halberds and long swords were visible.

Asha was not an imbecile. Assuming Winterfell was lightly defended – and the forces travelling in this direction were evidence against this – the citadel would require at least fifteen or sixteen thousand soldiers with a lot of trebuchets to breach the walls. The outer curtain wall was roughly between fifty and sixty feet high. This was not an obstacle you overwhelmed with a few ladders.

"Ah, we're awaited," commented happily her guide. Asha turned her head but saw no one next to their column.

The illusion broke the instant after; in the blink of an eye what had been an empty terrain of green grass was replaced by a small camp where two or three scores of Northerners were indeed waiting. Arya jumped from Valkia immediately. The reason of this strange behaviour was not long in coming: swift as an arrow, a black direwolf which made the grey female look tiny and unimposing collided with her. It was not alone. The black animal was followed by an entire pack of eight or nine great beasts, one of them being an albino-white and the others grey, brown or black.

As the direwolves celebrated their reunion with friendly bites, rolls and vigorous licking of their big tongues, Arya was already hugging one of the warriors which had been the closest from her. The column stopped and most Northerners dismounted, Asha and Brigit imitating them after a moment of hesitation.

When they were a couple of feet away, Asha saw the young man the daughter of Eddard Stark was talking also presented some Stark traits. The dark hairs were there, and so were some traits in the visage, but no grey eyes.

"Asha, this is my favourite half-brother Jon Snow," Arya made the presentations. "Jon, this is Asha Greyjoy and the red-hair is Brigit."

"My Lady," the bow was curt and short before the blue-violet eyes returned to Arya. "I've seen what you have done to your other 'favourite half-brothers', sister. Should I worry too about being crippled?"

No excuses came out of the lips from the Northern girl.

"If they can't last a spar against me, why do they insist to go to war?"

Jon Snow rolled his eyes to the sky, showing what he thought of this declaration. In blue-black armour he looked rather handsome, but he was more built like a fencer of the green lands rather than an axe-wielder reaver, and he had two one-handed swords strapped on his backs.

"Please tell me you didn't challenge Lord Glover in his own Motte."

"You know me, brother."

"Yes. This is why I am asking the question, Arya."

The voice was similar to Jon Snow but louder, more powerful and confident. There was power in these words and Asha felt the air change, becoming more oppressive and violent. There had been times in the Wolfswood where the trees felt more alive and dark, and this was giving her the same felling. Whispers resonated in the distance, but she ignored them.

A new warrior was next to Arya Stark. His armour was a bland black plate whose only decoration was a red direwolf encircled by an eight-pointed star. He was half a head taller than Jon Snow, had dark hairs and grey eyes...and there were sort of sparkles of pure darkness all over him.

Until that moment, Asha had believed the most dangerous man she'd ever met, was her own uncle Euron Greyjoy, more commonly known as the Crow's Eye. But this young man...as she looked into his eyes and he looked back, she knew in her heart and her mind no warrior of the Iron Islands would have the slightest chance against him.

"Lord Torrhen Stark, I suppose?"

Her interlocutor nodded calmly before bowing slightly.

"Lady Asha," the son of Eddard Stark and her future husband replied. "Welcome to Winterfell."

* * *

 **Ser Stevron Frey 1**

Being Heir of a Noble House in the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros was obviously one of the greatest titles which could be bestowed at birth. Only belonging to a Lord Paramount family or the Royal House of King's Landing was granting you a greater position in the complex hierarchy of the highborn Houses. You had the money to arm yourself, train with an acceptable master-at-arms and fight in tourneys or melee. Money to eat or drink was not a problem. Provided you didn't fail at the most basic things, you were always welcome in the neighbouring castles. If your skill at arms was impressive, you could earn quite a bit of fame before retiring when the Lord of your House left this earthly world.

There was a small flaw in the Heir's position, unfortunately. The Lord or the Lady of your House had to die at one point of your life. And on this small but crucial issue, the fact he was the Heir of the Twins was a mockery of fate.

Stevron was old. Born in the year of two hundred and thirty-four after the Conquest, he had recently celebrated his sixty-sixth name day. In a peaceful realm, he could tell of several scores of men he had rode with who were already dead and buried in the fertile soil of the Riverlands.

He was old and he was still waiting for his father, Lord Walder Frey, to die and finally claim the Lordship. After forty years of waiting and his forces abandoning him morning after morning, Stevron had sadly acknowledged becoming a Lord was now not going to do him any good. Even if his father died tomorrow – and given the vigour of the robust patriarch, he would never bet on this – his best years were long past him and he was not confident he had five more years in his tired body. His hairs had lost long ago every colour but the grey. A third of his teeth were missing. His eyes saw half the distance they could watch a decade before.

There were some advantages to be the longest living Heir of the Twins nonetheless. He married three times, had plenty of children, grandchildren and even a couple of great-grandchildren with more on the way. If he gave the order, he could command an escort of one hundred horses and knights to follow him to whatever destination he had in mind.

This happened less and less often these days. He was quickly exhausted past morning and had to rest twice as long as he was fifty. Preserving his meagre forces was now the goal of his afternoons, and it had become a chore in itself.

As such, standing like he was at the moment on the rampart of Sentinel's Stand had cost him a lot of his vigour and he knew he was going to pay for it heavily in the next fortnight. But for the moment, his attention was elsewhere.

His old eyes were watching the dark green clouds massing over the Neck. In winter, such a growing storm would not have been out of the norm save the colour. In these last days of summer, it was easy to recognise it as the unnatural phenomenon it was.

It was an ugly thing, no matter the number of leagues separating him from these twisted clouds. Sometimes it was like contemplating a wall of darkness and miasma. At other times it was clearer but you could almost see atrocious heads, fangs and other awful things emerging from the storm.

"When did it begin?" He asked to his host, trying to keep the dread he felt out of his voice.

"Last evening," replied Lord Benedict Sentinel. Two years younger than Stevron himself, the Master of the greatest fortress of the Small Wall was built like a bull and no fat or sign of a life of indulgence could be seen on his hard visage. His white hairs were short and the frosty wind carried from the North had no effect. Benedict was tall and defiant. "Cliff Fort has also reported new storms in the Bite. The Sistermen have sent all their ravens. Blue and purple lightning are illuminating the seas. Several of their fishermen have not returned from their daily duties."

"They know of the incoming Crusade." Northern spies had not the time to send ravens to their masters, so the only option to be aware of the southern recent events was sorcery. Stevron did not find it very reassuring. He was hardly a good leader of men and had fought two melees in all his youth, but he could recognise the advantage in information the heretical practises offered the men from the Neck and beyond. "How long do you think?"

"Less than a fortnight for the first skirmishers," the words were determined and not hesitant. "There will be raiding parties of humans and non-humans heretics from the Edge Fort to the Cliff Fort testing our defences in depth. Light infantry, monsters from the Neck and a few mounted scouts, all armed with poisoned weapons."

Stevron shivered. The reputation of the crannogmen when it came to poisons was not an amusing thing. All the veteran stories and old folk tales were in agreement on one thing: a scratch from an arrow of the Neck was a guarantee of long suffering and endless agony. Many men of the Riverlands and Westeros had been taught on the battlefield that it was indeed quite possible for a grown man to beg for death at the hands of his own comrades rather to endure the torture of the monstrous poisons.

"You must convince your Father to accelerate his muster Stevron," Benedict pressed him. "The storm is coming and I fear the banners of Riverrun will not arrive in time to help us."

"I will try," his attempt to smile must have looked very unconvincing he was sure. "But my Father was more interested in the preparations of his marriage than ordering us to march to war."

Oh, they had very large armouries, a great number of siege engines and thousands of young men eager to prove themselves in the name of ambition and gaining the capricious favours of Lord Walder. But House Frey had not participated in a real campaign in his entire life.

"What is it, his ninth one this time?"

"It is," the Heir of the Twins confirmed. "The eighth died in childbirth four moons ago, so he found an ugly Reacher of House Florent no one wanted to marry and demanded a dowry of silver and a caravan of the South to trade with our household."

As much as a lot of his fellow Riverlords didn't like his Father, there was no denying the elderly Lord had kept all his wits and abilities to exchange mud against silver.

"Well, tell him to stop fornicating." Benedict didn't snarl, but he wasn't far from it. "If Sentinel's Stand falls to the heretics, the Twins will be the next fortress to be besieged."

"I know," he sighed before giving a last glance to the darkness moving southwards. "This is going to be a war we've never seen the like..."

* * *

 **Author's note** : three Crusades have been declared, the time of war and bloodshed is upon Westeros. The Ironborn are ready to return to their nasty reaving habits. The South musters its armies, numerous but inexperienced to the rigours of carnage and winter. And the North is ready to destroy their old opponents of the Faith...but not everything is going according to the plan.

Next chapter will see the first clashes of the war...and the first tragedies too.

As usual, if you want to support this story on P a treon: ww w. p a treon Antony444


	7. The Blades are Drawn

**Chapter 7**

 **The Blades are Drawn**

 **Waymar Royce 4**

From the outside, Castle Black didn't leave up to the reputation preachers gave him in the septs of Runestone, Gulltown and the rest of the Vale.

According to the rumours he had heard in various tournaments, the headquarters of the Night's Watch was a place dozens of mad sorcerers had haphazardly modified by erecting damned towers ignoring the customs of proper architecture and the walls were filled with the souls of fallen warriors and monsters.

Reality was quite disappointing. Castle Black was a neat block of black stone with one central tower and four smaller barracks, surrounded by a black curtain wall. The former included the quarters of the Lord Commander, the Great Library of the Night's Watch, the maesters rooms and the opening to several tunnels the black brothers used to stock food, supplies and knowledge. The latter were for the warriors of the Night's Watch.

Most of the stones had strange runes embedded in them. Waymar could trustfully say however he didn't see the tormented souls screaming from the inside or the outside. There were sometimes sparkles of colours or magic flickers, but really nothing impressive. Runestone had a sort of similar design, except the sorcery and the vulnerability from the South. The Stark and the rest of the Northern Houses wanted to prevent rebellions and other potential revolts before they happened.

The third son of Lord Royce would love to say everything the septons and septas taught in their morning prayers was wrong but he could not. The monsters were very real at the Wall...and not all were on the other side.

"Get moving Waymar!" barked Asher, one of the elderly black brothers who was practically the definition of 'demon' every good Southerner had of the Northern heretics. "The beastmen are not going for you to be ready!"

Asher was tall and red skinned. His eyes were yellow and had a shape similar to a snake and his helmet had to be modified several years ago for the lone horn on the left of his head. No, Waymar had not drunk an entire barrel of ale last night. The very skin of the Barrowton-born Northerner had turned red and with scales after two decades of service on the Wall.

He was among the lucky ones.

Lacing all the protections of his new armour by himself was a long and awkward process by himself. Not to mention he could never stop a feeling of unease in his throat. The black metal had hundreds of red runes to protect him from the worst emanations of the winds of magic when he was outside, but this was not an absolute protection. There were many warriors who climbed the greatest fortification built by men on the morning and in the evening descended only to find themselves sealed in their armours for the rest of their lives.

When he had verified the plate and the rest of his equipment was in place, he ran as fast as he could to the enormous lifts at the base of the Wall, joining Bran the Red, Wulfer, Jor, Edur and the rest of his group. Like him, they wore red runes on their armour, sign their vows had been sworn to Khorne, the Northern God of War, Blood, Battles, Honour, Carnage, Skulls and a thousand other domains where violence and the shedding of blood was involved.

There were four lifts to get to the top of the Wall at Castle Black. Eastwatch-by-the-Sea had only three in comparison. Unlike many things in use by the Northerners, the cables, the cages and the mechanisms were purely the work of mortal hands. They were protection runes everywhere of course, but the cages they used would have worked the same way at the Eyrie or Casterly Rock.

"The rangers think a small herd of three thousand is coming our way!" screamed Asher before they reached the top of the Wall. "Young brutes are testing our defences and the Lord Commander wants to see what you have in the arms and the guts!"

Waymar shivered once again at the mention of Lord Jeor Mormont. When he had sailed on the Black Ships, Waymar had entertained dreams to convince the black brothers to vote him once the Old Bear died or became a demon – though the Northerners called it 'Ascending'. One look at the man and his arms able to strangle a great boar without relenting was enough to remind him he was an inexperienced fighter in a sea of monster-warriors.

And then they were on top of the Known World. Despite it being the twelfth time he was able to watch the Haunted Forest and the Frostfangs in the distance, this was still something filling him with awe.

"Those of you who know how to wield a bow take one and prepare the fire arrows! The rest, prepare the barrels, the rocks and the substances!"

There was no call for any sorcerers: while Khorne accepted some Blood Mages as His Champions, Waymar was told by the grizzling stewards that the path killed nine out of ten and it was best to begin the training the moment you were able to walk if you wanted to avoid an implosion of your skull or spawnhood.

A score of breaths later, he had a longbow - which looked like it had been carved in the bone of some dangerous animal - in his hands and a small black pot in front of him was in flames. The snow between the forest and the Wall was empty, but given the screams and the brays in the distance, battle was imminent. Far on his right, there was a torrent of blue-green sparks, undoubtedly sorcerers preparing more of their ignoble sorceries.

"Take your time for each volley!" commanded Asher in his back. "These arrows will kill a beastman for sure, but we have not mountains of them!"

Concentrate himself was far harder than usual. The shouts, orders, counter-orders and insults were an ungodly din. There were scores of black brothers everywhere on the defences, which could have been bad enough, but many wildling warriors – or as they preferred to called, Free Folk, were running in every direction.

As far as Waymar could tell, these savages were Chaos-worshipping warriors like the Northerners, except they constantly tried to settle again Beyond-the-Wall and chase the beastmen which had forced to depart their hunting grounds centuries ago. Thousands lived in the Gift, or so the stewards and builders affirmed, but they never truly bent the knee to Winterfell and the direwolf banner of the Starks. Oh, and their armours sucked a lot. The Northern smiths like their counterparts of the Southern Seven Kingdoms had long mastered the art of armour plate. The wildlings were in leather or bone contraptions, and those who had better weapons, shields and the like were the chieftains or warriors who had impressed the black brothers.

Finally, the great horns of Castle Black sounded twice.

"THEY ARE COMING!"

The imprecation was not that necessary as hundreds of small moving points emerged from the Haunted Forest below his watch-post. And damn, the beasts were fast. Waymar was not going to say his brothers would have the time to play ten card games while he crossed fully armoured the snow field, but it was a good ride.

Their enemies were far faster than any infantry should be...but then there was no organisation or discipline in this mass. These were intelligent, human-eating beasts and hybrid of corrupted wildlings that the darkest powers of Chaos had decided to unleash on the world.

Killing them was the right thing to do. Valeman Waymar was by right of birth, but he could safely say no one in his right mind wanted to live with a horde like this in the next valley.

"ARCHERS! SHOOT YOUR ARROWS NOW!"

Waymar obeyed with care and precision, but he could not really miss. The monsters braying and rushing to assault the Wall were literally running to take this deadly rain right in the eye or the muzzle. Some were using shields but the majority had just weapons in their paws and as a result they died.

Rapidly, the archers of the Night's Watch shot three neat volleys and hundreds of beastmen fell.

"SORCERERS! SCORPIONS AND SIEGE ENGINES!"

The damage Waymar and the other archers was overshadowed suddenly by a sort of green-dark cloud which engulfed the enemy horde. When it disappeared after a dozen breaths, the beastmen were fighting each other.

"A sort of massive aggressiveness-inducing spell," told Asher, next to him with a torch in his hand to revive the weakening flames. " A long time they hadn't used this one while I was on duty. In general they prefer the big blasts or the poisons..."

One thing was sure, the magical attack and the bolts of the scorpions had stopped this attack cold. It was entirely possible they even had killed the beast-leader because several imposing creatures were fighting each other surrounded by others in a neat circle like some fist-fighter did during a day's celebration in a village.

They didn't stop shooting arrows of course. And the numbers of enemies decreased and decreased. Each of Waymar's arrows found their mark...he thought, although they would have to wait the corpse-dismemberment to know for sure. If so, this was sixteen kills, no seventeen and...

"They are breaking..." the whisper was repeated and suddenly became shouts in dozens of voices as what had been a horde completely broke in tiny war bands before running desperately for the dark shadows of the Haunted Forest.

Waymar approached cautiously the edge of the great fortification and saw less than two dozens beastmen had managed to climb a few feet above the ground before they were pulverised by sorcery or the old but terribly efficient boulders.

"It was a massacre, not a battle," he told Asher.

"Most attacks on the Wall are usually like this," the red-skinned veteran retorted with a roll of his heavily armed shoulders. "But when the rangers go Beyond, it's usually the reverse. The beastmen have nearly unlimited numbers; we don't. With the Wall, we can hold at two hundred against one. Without it, we can fight six or seven against one on open terrain and plenty of warning."

And since he was anything but a sorcerer or someone with steward-skills, it was likely he was going to join the rangers. The separation in the Night's Watch was only made after one year of service, giving the opportunity to the recruits to prove their worth in battle and for their elders to judge the willingness behind their vows.

"Ah, one of the fresh meat has proved his idiocy," declared a blue-eyed warrior with runes revealing his allegiance to Nurgle.

And indeed several feet away, next to one of the scorpions, a middle-aged man Waymar remembered coming with travelling from Eastwatch to Castle Black was helmet-less...and the result was horrible to see.

A normal human has two eyes at birth and North or South, people love keeping it that way. The Crownlander had now at least ten and this wasn't the most disturbing thing which had grown on his face. On his mouth there were now weird things that should be kept among the insects. His hairs had transformed into tentacles of a purple colour. His tongue was several times its original length. Worse, by the way the armour was bulging, there was no way the changes were limited to his face.

"He's doomed, isn't he?" Waymar asked rhetorically Asher. "Why don't they kill him?"

"Certain spawns can be useful for training and pit duels..." was the disgusting answer.

The former criminal who had been sent to the Black Ships tried to bit the arms of the black brothers holding him but the moment he began to struggle, a sort of bright magical bolt struck him right where his forehead had been – Waymar wasn't ready to describe what had replaced it. The transforming recruit collapsed and hit the ground, unconscious.

Turning his head to see who was responsible for this act, Waymar had to repress a gasp. Walking towards her target was clearly a woman in black armour, though in her case the runes were not the usual red, blue, green or purple, but a shining silver. But this was not the kind of plate armour every black brother was given once they score the vows or even the big prized ameliorations of the commanders. No, this armour was skintight and left very little to the imagination of the woman's curves hidden under it. In clear, the armour looked like it had been forged to the degree of precision of a ball dress...except it should be ruinous, even with sorcery, right?

But the most worrying thing was the aura of power surrounding the woman. Where most runes shone in a pale light, the silver runes were radiance itself and there was an unnatural power surrounding the moves of the female sorceress.

"Who is she?" He whispered to the older black brother.

"Lower your tone, your eyes and stay far away from her," he received in return. "She is the Silver Archer, Undivided Champion and ward of the Lord Commander. The fresh Southerners like you, she kill ten before noon when she's in the mood."

Several sorcerers bound the mutating brother in unnatural chains and this time the scream out of his lips was one of unfeigned agony.

"What is her name?"

"Ygritte...but don't try to engage a conversation unless you have an excellent reason or you will envy the eunuchs before the next dawn..."

* * *

 **Lord Howland Reed 1**

For those who were born in the swamps of the Neck, the region known as the Southern March was not home. Oh, there were swamps, a few dangerous animals and insects. But the ground was largely solid. With some effort, a skilled rider could ride a horse from the western to the eastern coast without walking and helping his four-legged companion cross the various natural obstacles.

The problem was not the absence of the great and wrathful predators the Neck could unleash on unsuspecting visitors however. No, the reason the crannogmen and their allies did not like this March was the presence nearby of the Southron and their Seven-damned banners. The humid plain he was currently observing was close to the Small Wall and the Riverlands fortresses like Sentinel's Stand, blocking with their high towers and large walls the Kingsroad.

These lands had belonged to House Reed and all crannogmen once upon a time. But now only the sagas and the legends transmitted generation after generation allowed the Northerners to remember. After the failures of the damned Crusaders to take Moat Cailin, this was where the Andals had stopped their conquests before dividing the lands and rivers they had joyously painted in blood and First Men's corpses.

As such, the surviving crannogmen and the Starks of Winterfell had enthusiastically explained with axes, magic and sword why respecting the frontier and the North was a good idea. The idiotic Southerners who thought otherwise didn't come back. The Neck was the domain of Grandfather Nurgle and a non-believer did not last long in the waters and the tiny islands in the middle of the swamps. Between the ferocious predators and the plagues, no self-proclaimed adventurer had survived more than eleven days under Howland Reed's rule when he commanded the Host of the Reaper.

But change was in the air and his daughter had taken the mantle from him. It appeared he had been an excellent master in the ways of hunting, patience and scythe-fighting. Too good, had whispered his beloved wife before he left at the head of his score of skirmishers. Bah, he was getting older and ascension had evaded him for decades. His soul was going to join the Garden in time. His back ached, his breath grew ragged at every intensive long progression and his hairs were more grey and white than green or brown. He knew it and he embraced it. As a follower of the Lord of Life and Death, you learned every being was a part of the great cycle. He was no different than the scouts waiting with him neck-deep in the small pond they had themselves created a day ago.

"I see two scores of infantry," Howland whispered to the man of Greywater Watch on his right. He could have screamed, the curses and the loud imprecations of their targets created a din so loud Howland was surprised the dead were not waking up to tell them to stop.

"They have left three more men as a rear-guard," added his second. "One of them has used the wrong leaves for his meal. He will be dead before sunset."

Ah, the eyes of youth. Sometimes Howland was telling himself it would be nice to sacrifice a couple hundred of ignorant Riverlander to regain the senses of his twenty name days. Next thought unavoidably was that this war may very well give him the chance to do exactly that.

"Good," he affirmed. "One dead Southerner is a good Southron for our purposes."

The old Master of Greywater Watch seized his great scythe _Soul-Reaper_ and gave a long and silent signal with his hands.

Not for the men and the women of his group the loud battle-cries of the Khornate berserkers and Slaanesh thrill-seekers. To be fair, there were also followers of Nurgle who delighted in chanting and announcing the fate awaiting those who dares oppose the plans of the Lord of Nature and Decay. But crannogmen had other strategies when they drew their blades outside of the great battlefields.

One by one, the men and the women of the Neck disappeared in the shadows and the waters of the Marches. A particularly vigilant animal or bird could have given the alert.

The clumsy and vocal Southrons advancing first in what was for them an unfamiliar terrain did not. They had a pretty appearance, these men. They were clad in mail and steel. Each wielded a large weapon. The first to come had one-handed swords, while the heart of the formation was equipped with halberds and one or two lone warriors had chosen a large warhammer or a double axe. Over their heads flew the mighty banner of House Sentinel, the wall and the knight shining in holy light.

Two scores of men in patrol far from their citadel, certainly sent by their Lord in the hope they discovered something important about the preparations of the Black Crusade and the sorcery darkening the clouds.

Too bad for the old Lord Sentinel, he was playing against sorcerers. Moat Cailin and Greywater Watch had seen him like they were above his shoulders giving his subordinates the commands to harass and bleed enemies coming from the Neck.

When the first swamp arrow pierced the flesh, it was not something he could call a battle.

The men of the tranquil Riverlands screamed and panicked, tried to give succour to the man who had just received a projectile in the eye and raised their weapons in defiance. They just provided nicer and easier targets for his archers. Leg, arm, head, throat...it didn't matter for his veterans. With arrows prepared with some of the deadliest and most painful venoms the Neck could provide, any contact with human's blood was the end of their lives on this blessed soil.

The ambush had just begun and in two volleys half of the Riverlanders were agonising. One or two tried to escape from where they came. He abandoned his hideout and removed the head of one of the cowards. Like in many things, these blasphemers preached one thing and then forgot it the moment victory eluded them.

"DEMON! DEMON!"

Deep inside, Howland was amused when his next opponent squeaked like a virgin maiden.

"No, I am not a demon," he told the halberd-wielder before cutting the hand wielding the weapon. "But don't worry, you are going to meet them imminently." _Soul-Reaper_ slashed his throat, and the patrol had one more dead man on its legs.

The rest was just a slaughter, his crannogmen and crannogwomen removing the heads of their kills and ending the torments of the men who had the misfortune to be 'merely' injured by the arrows. Their pleas of mercy were a good clue they were regretting their survival.

"And now we move on the next patrol..."

* * *

 **Asha Greyjoy 5**

There were moments where you wished to kill your Lord Father and he was sadly out of reach for a good-old axe strike.

The instant Asha saw her wedding dress was absolutely one of these moments. The horror she had been forced to choose from a very short range of robes had not been to her taste, and this was her lying.

The frilly light blue...thing...had given her murderous thoughts and her 'choice' had been like swallowing poison to fight poison. You didn't know if it was going to work, but you were sure the other cures were far, far worse. Or in the case of the dresses, you didn't want to be seen wearing the second choices.

Yes, Asha wanted to murder the Iron King after that. And the dress being in a coffer locked and guarded by warriors she couldn't bribe had sealed her fate.

So imagine her surprise when the...robe...which the servants in charge of preparing her for the wedding presented to her was NOT the light blue dress she had been presented fortnights ago.

"What is that?" The Ironborn woman managed to utter in shock. The reaction Arya Stark, leaning against the wall, was more expressive. Her Northern guide burst in laughter so hard Asha was for a moment worried she was going to die giggling. The rest of the women smiled, but they respectfully did not voice their hilarity. Without doubt they were going to wait she was away to succumb to their emotions.

"It...looks...like...a...Slaaneshi...robe..." Arya Stark was laughing so hard the words were coming in one or two. Asha, on the other hand, was shocked and traumatised by the...cloth...the women placed in her hands. "Your...Father...must have...bought...this from a Lysene trader."

The worst part was that the sister of the man she was about to marry was certainly right. Asha had sailed to the Free Cities and saw enough goods being sold to know which merchants sold this. The exquisiteness and the weaving screamed Lysene, indeed.

This was where the good news ended. The robe was long, going from her neck to her toes...and it was in a transparent sort of lace which didn't seem to hide anything.

Asha had seen many whores wearing less revealing dresses in the quarters near Westerosi and Essossi harbours and this was a generous affirmation.

"I can't wear this for my wedding!" she hissed as Arya continued to laugh. A rapid search in the coffer where the dress was stored was fruitless. She found the undergarments – transparent, like the robe – and shoes which were looking prodigiously uncomfortable.

"I can't wear this for my wedding!" she repeated urgently. By the Drowned God and the Stormed God, the attires she used to fuck when she was with men on the Black Wind were less outrageous. She wasn't going to present herself like this in front of the Northern warlords and their captains!

Fortunately, Arya had stopped laughing and one of the servants surrounding her opened her mouth to save her.

"One of Lady Saara's robes could work, they are of similar height."

"Yes," the direwolf-owner agreed. "She wasn't able to take everything for her travel to the Iron Islands...err...which colour do you want, Asha?"

"Black or dark blue," she said after a moment of reflexion. Half of the women left the room, leaving the indecent robe on her bed. Asha had a few minutes to contemplate it before her 'helpers' came back. By the storm and the waves, what was wrong with her Father and the rest of her family? This was something to wear in the privacy of someone private quarters, not at a grand wedding? As the days away from Harlaw were adding to one another, Asha was raging more and more against her brothers, her uncles and of course 'King Balon'. What a good father he had been, truly.

On these unhappy thoughts, Arya came back with the handmaidens and with them came a young boy with the typical Stark straits, dark brown hairs and grey eyes. There was no need to present him for her to realise this was another of Eddard Stark's children. Inwardly, the daughter of the Iron Islands wondered how many children the Heir to Winterfell had sired, legitimate or illegitimate. Torrhen, Saara, Arya, this young boy and the bastard Jon Snow...

"My younger brother, Cregan," said the owner of Valkia. "He loves sorcery, books and mysteries."

Watching him, Cregan Stark looked...well perhaps like a younger version of her uncle Rodrik, Lord of Harlaw and Ten Towers. His right arm had a large book in his grip and his clothes looked like they had been covered in runes five times in close succession because it was difficult to guess the original colour of the cloth. Fixed on his left eye, a device looking like a mini Myrish spyglass contributed to a bookworm and maester-like look.

Asha pronounced the usual greetings, but the young boy superbly ignored her.

"Where is the robe you want me to work with?"

One of the servants unveiled a long dark blue dress. In the privacy of her head, Asha grimaced. This was not the robe of her dreams for sure. As expected from the eldest Stark daughter, this dress would show far too much of her breasts and her back...but it was largely better than go naked.

Then Cregan Stark touched the robe and suddenly the hems took a golden colour while the front was decorated with a great yellow kraken. The shades of purple which had been here and there disappeared to leave the robe a dark blue. Runes appeared and disappeared, with the robe becoming more elegant and refined.

"Done," said Cregan in a petulant tone. "You owe me one favour." And he left the room without a salute or another look back.

"Is he always like this?" She wondered out loud. Arya snorted.

"No, most of the time he's worse. But he was authorised to blow some targets this morning, so he was in a better humour when I interrupted his reading."

"I know I am going to regret this," the women around her helped disrobe before new undergarments were handed to her and the Northern robe was prepared. "But what is he doing when he's angry?"

"Oh the usual. He transform people into frogs, grow toxic mushrooms, he summons blizzards..." seeing Asha's worried expression, her guide and benefactor spoke louder. "But you don't have to worry. He will not touch you since you're Torrhen betrothed."

"It must be nice to have powerful sorcerers like him."

Arya did not meet her eyes this time.

"He's the most powerful Gift-user of his generation. He has not yet made his final choice, but he's going to be a Champion of Tzeentch, everyone at Winterfell knows it."

Then the handmaidens surrounded her for the robe and the conversation didn't continue. Time flew faster than she wanted, and before long she found herself in front of Great Altar of Winterfell, Brigit and Arya behind her. The Ironborn woman like her had received a dark blue robe, but a far more modest one: unlike her they must not have chosen Saara Stark's dresses. Arya Stark was in a dark grey robe but very conservative. Other Northern Ladies followed.

Of course her attention was mostly on the four different themes of the room where they were waiting. Drowned God or Storm God-worshipper, you could not deny this place was bathing in power. Where the North was, the wall and the ground were red like spilled blood and covered in weapons. Eastwards, strange flames contorted and burned, with small lightning striking the blue ground at irregular intervals. Westwards, the decoration was green and a large tree the Northerners called weirwood was there, with a pale face and tears of red sap. And to the south, the atmosphere was definitely pink, gold and lustful, with images of naked demonesses joining incredible jewels.

In the centre was a great throne where a very old warrior was seated. No announcement was made, but the grey hairs, the massive direwolf at his feet and the long Valyrian sword in the scabbard next to him could belong to only one man: Lord Rickard Stark, Lord Paramount of the North, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Closer, he seemed even more formidable. Uncountable scars, small and big, were present on his aged skin and one of his eyes was forever shut. But despite this, Asha felt she was an ant in front of a giant.

"Asha Greyjoy..." the rumble out of the Lord's mouth was like thunder had been placed in a mortal's mouth. "I don't like your Father."

"I am not pleased with him too," she admitted in the silence which had engulfed the large crowd waiting in the Great Hall behind them.

"Humph!" The huff was voiced while caressing the great direwolf at his feet. "But you want to marry my grandson, no?"

"Yes." And not just for the reason her family would kill her if she negated their precious alliance just before they were ready to rebel.

"Ha!" The wrinkled face guffawed. "And you, grandson?" Asha made a side-step in surprise as Torrhen Stark had appeared out of nowhere to her side. She slightly reddened when she examined him from his head to his shoes: until now she had only seen him in his armour or other war-time attire. But here he wore a full set, doublet and all in grey and while the clothes were not transparent, he was far better than every sailor she had chosen to amuse herself between Pyke and Volantis.

"I see no objection in marrying my betrothed," replied Torrhen with a large smile.

"Then we can begin," and there was iron and steel in this voice. Power too. It amazed her and terrified her in equal measure. Never there had been so much authority in her Father's words.

"Asha Greyjoy, do you swear in the name of Slaanesh to love your husband Torrhen Stark and sire his children?"

A purple blast echoed in her and suddenly Asha felt a warmth which had nothing to do with fire and everything to do with sex.

"Yes." Gods, the ceremonies had better not to last long because she was ready for some male attention after that.

Rickard's son pronounced the same words for Torrhen, though for him it was to love his wife and put a lot of virile seed in her loins.

"Asha Greyjoy, do you swear in the name of Nurgle to endure the Circle of Life, Decay and Death with Torrhen Stark? To help the weirwoods grow across this continent and return to the earth when your union breaks and death tears you apart ?"

The new magic was green and had the same 'taste' of several trees she had enjoyed staying under in the Wolfswood. It was powerful and wild...but also there was a hint of darkness behind them.

"Yes."

The next question asked to his grandson was different, something like the branches and the leaves Asha didn't understand.

"Asha Greyjoy, do you swear in the name of Tzeentch to join Torrhen Stark in the pursuit of sorcery and change? Will you help him build and destroy new marvels in the name of the Architect?"

"Yes."

The magical sensation was...weird. She felt simultaneously stronger and weaker, caught between the waves and the storms of the Iron Islands. Her thoughts erred for a few breaths and thinking only got easier when the Grey Wolf asked his fourth question.

"Asha Greyjoy, do you swear in the name of Khorne to fight and bleed the battles of Torrhen Stark? To battle , wield the axe and crush his enemies on the battlefield?"

Rage, anger, determination, courage and more strength she had ever felt filled her veins and the promise could only appeal to her warrior's instincts.

"Yes."

Torrhen Star imitated her immediately after and his grandfather slammed his sword against the ground.

"Then I stand witness and unite you as Husband and Wife."

There was a flash of uncountable colours and when Asha looked at her robe again, she gasped for everything, shoes, robe and cloak, had taken a grey colour and the kraken Cregan Stark had made appear was now replaced by a growling direwolf.

"You can know kiss, Torrhen and Asha Stark, united under the Light and the Darkness of the Gods."

Asha was not going to pretend she felt reluctant at obeying the command under the thousand of cheers coming from the Northerners.

* * *

 **Ser Gerion Lannister 2**

Now that he had seen what the world had to offer, Gerion thought he should have stayed at Casterly Rock and raised his illegitimate daughter. It would have been boring, but being bored was preferable to these last years. Assuredly Tywin was a poor brother, but he was only one man for all his defaults. The ancestral Lannister home was a safe place as long as he remembered and there were people he really enjoyed living with.

Departing for a lone quest for Brightroar on the other hand, had just caused him trouble after trouble and the failed quest had been filled with abominable revelations and desperate battles.

His hopes this poor luck had suddenly stopped with his liberation from the cannibals' prisons in the jungles of Sothoryos had not lasted long. First, a Northerner warrior had decided he was the reincarnation of Theon the Hungry Wolf and decided to go on a rampage on these shores. The result had been scary, bloodbath-horrifying and worth at least sixty heresies in front of a septon.

Secondly, it was quite obvious all the men following Euron Greyjoy were absolutely insane. A conversation with the Ironborn captain was sufficient to realise this and for the others, the craziness was not difficult to observe. Like the madman-in-chief had told him on that day:

"Every time they see my sails, they all pray their Gods to protect them from me."

A hard and bloody journey in the jungles later, they had left the disease-plagued continent and then the true magnitude of the folly having taken hold in the Crow's Eye mind was in front of his eyes. But where was he supposed to go? The _Silence_ was a lair of monsters hidden behind human visages, but it was still his last chance to return to the Westerlands or anywhere on Westeros.

He had been forced to repeat this fact in his mind every day from dawn to sunset. The _Silence_ was a torment for his mind and his sanity.

The presence of slaves aboard, alas, had not been astonishing. Gerion was a Lannister, and knew many reavers raided and pillaged while filling their hulls with captives. Depending on their mood, the Ironborn captains called their prisoners slaves or thralls. Euron Greyjoy obviously belonged to the first category.

But to the knight's knowledge, no one save the madman-captain had ever cut the tongues of his captives by the scores. This mutilation was cruel and had left him unable to sleep many nights...and this was just the first of many indignities, tortures and torments Euron Greyjoy visited upon them. Every captive chained in the hull of the Silence bore the marks of the chains and long beatings one way or another. Their eyes were troubled and vacant, like they were perpetually plunged into a nightmare. The men were often branded with hundreds of runes and castrated in addition to the tongue removal. Worse, if they were judged too weak, Euron gave the authorisation to his false-maester Qyburn to 'practise' on them.

The final experiment, according to the two or three warriors able and willing to talk to him, was always ending in the exiled of the Citadel opening the belly of his 'subject' and breaking as many parts as possible before the heart failed. And yes, this experiment was realised with the victim conscious and unable to resist.

One should have hoped that after this display of cruelty and madness, the fate of the women would have been preferable. It wasn't. Many had been branded in the same manners men were, and all were raped either by Euron or one of his lieutenants. A few had even given the captain of Silence children...who were used in blood sacrifices when the situation demanded it.

It went without saying there was no salvation to be found on this ship. Not for him, not for the slaves and not for the ship itself. The blood-warrior Gerion had taken at first for a Northerner was in fact revealed to be a bastard of House Bolton, one of these human-flayers Houses exiled by the Starks and forced to cross the Narrow Sea after an unsuccessful rebellion. By all the Gods and Demons of this world, it was better to be far away from this 'Ramsay'. The mad warrior was already whispering alone, laughing or screaming heretical words. Only Euron could approach him and keep his life.

The rest of the crew was a pack of murderers and monsters. In no particular order, it included: sorcerers and warlocks of the Free Cities enslaved by Euron, a Summer Islander archer who had decided hunting men was more interesting than birds, an Essossi trader who had decided to sell human meat instead of flesh, five pirates of ill-repute known for their bloody reputations from the Sunset Sea to the Jade Gates, an Ibbenese whaler who had decided torture was a noble activity and a mind-broken Dothraki convinced the Master of the _Silence_ was the avatar of something terrible and war-like.

If there was a more dreadful crew to ever sail the known seas, Gerion did not know its name. And consequently while he would have loved to see this band of scoundrels and murderers dance at the end of the ropes they deserved a thousand times, he had done his best not to attract attention, help with the sails and the navigation and stay away from the path of Euron Greyjoy. It had been easier than he thought, to say the truth. In the end, Euron had not been interested in Brightroar – the family legacy which was now with him – but in a medallion of bronze and jade supposed to have mystic powers. Said object had been on his prison's door, which was why the Crow's Eye had bothered rescuing him.

Anyway, Euron Greyjoy was now rarely seen outside of the meals on the bridge, and Gerion thanked the Seven profusely for it. Happy or unhappy, the Crow's Eye was a dangerous man and he could after a good joke call you brother like he could seize a dagger and slice your throat.

And yes, Gerion had seen him do it. Twice.

But as far as threats went, the biggest problem right now Gerion faced was the weather. For the last three days, they had met violent storm after violent storm on their attempt to come back to Westeros. When he arrived to the prow, Qyburn was not tight-lipped voicing his thoughts.

"So early in the season, the storm shouldn't be so violent. I fear there is sorcery behind these clouds," affirmed the man who had been long ago a master.

"I don't know," replied hesitantly Gerion, wondering what his life had become for him to discuss the limits of magic on the bridge of the _Silence_. "I want to find a reason for our navigation problems, but aren't we a bit far from any civilisation using sorcerous means?"

"We are!" exclaimed an amused voice and everyone listening turned to see the dark figure and its mantle of crow feathers join the conversation. "But the witches and wizards of the wild North or the warlocks of Qarth are not responsible for our woes. My little seers have revealed to me the name of the storm-maker."

"Tell me his name! The Blood God demands his skull!" Great contest: one chance to guess who had spoken in such a bloodthirsty manner.

"I'm afraid the sorcerer sailing west is a too dangerous prey for us, berserker," the eye of the Crow's Eye was shining with malice. "I do not wish to challenge the Yellow Emperor...yet."

* * *

 **Lady Saara Stark 2**

If anybody had the strange idea one day to marry an Ironborn, Saara's advice was: don't. There were a few exceptions, but generally most of the local women were ugly. It must have been taken into account long ago: by tradition, any reaver worth the name was supposed to have a rock wife keeping the affairs in order at home while the husband jumped on everything which had a pair of big breasts, enslaved them and called them his salt wives.

The men were more interesting body-wise: a life at sea had given them muscles and other traits which were pleasant to look at. But as they loved to play axe-throwing and other stupid games where they lost limbs half of the time, the middle-aged generation was sufficiently scarred and crippled it had nothing attractive anymore. And then there was the issue of their minds. The Ironborn were the product of a society repeating to them at every moment of the day they were the elite of the human species. Saara had thought of a joke at first, but it seemed they really believed that. How they thought it true when their miserable culture had been crushed decisively and punched back to their home islands, the daughter of Eddard Stark had no idea. By a direct reasoning, if the Ironborn were really the best warriors from the Lonely Light to Yi-Ti, they should govern a great empire.

Thanks to their idiotic boasts, the Lord of Pyke and their bannersmen had the arrogance of the Goddess Slaanesh Herself, the level of intelligence to make a Khornate berserker look like a war genius, the knowledge of a narrow-minded fanatic septon and the charm of starved sellswords.

Saara could continue for a long time like this. Their 'Drowned Priests' were giving her a feeling of pity. They played with bits of power and rituals, proud of their ignorance and the lives they gave to something they didn't understand. Most of them hadn't any magical skills at all but this brainless religion found no obstacles when they weren't able to back their deeds and pretensions. The Ironborn culture was a martial one and there wasn't anything wrong with that, but they had disregarded most of the songs, musics and artwork which should ensure their victories were remembered for centuries. The fortresses she had visited until now were dark and unwelcoming, tapestries, paintings and books were extremely rare and in majority had been taken in raids.

The Iron Islands rarely produced anything but blades and war supplies, in service of a God which was staying silent. And the best point was the reavers tended to blame the Reach, the Westerlands and the Riverlands for their crass ignorance, their wealth and their governance.

Happily, Saara was here to remedy to their flaws. When she had finished her work here, she swore the number of ignorant Ironborn would be drastically cut down.

"Under the eyes of the Drowned God, we are gathered in this holy place on this day..."

She rolled her eyes discreetly as a Drowned Priest who had his place in a piggery began his boring litany. Really, she understood her duty and this marriage was no true alliance, for even a simpleton understood House Stark and House Greyjoy intended to betray each other the moment the forces of the Iron Throne were annihilated.

"As the Grey King himself said, the waves are the empire of life and we must defend them..."

Before today she had hoped the ceremony would begin in the Great Hall of Pyke but it wasn't the case. The Ironborn of Pyke had a huge black stone they called the 'Rock-Oath of the Krakens' or something similar in the middle of the island. It was there marriages unions were officially pronounced.

In Saara's opinion, it was ridiculous. She could wear the long grey-white dress with the long grey-furred cloak of her family without shivering, but she was the exception. The weather was windy and the air was getting colder. The sun was absent and hundreds of men and women were wrapped in warm clothes or sea cloaks to protect themselves from the embrace of their 'Storm God'.

"This is a glorious day, for two Royal Houses are tying their destinies in blood and love..."

Saara didn't jiggle but the laughter was there behind her smile. Love? The Northern woman in her had not been lovestruck by the Heir of 'King Balon'. This oaf had already many ugly scars which had not been correctly healed – and wasn't it surprising, when Ironborn killed their maesters at the first sign of anger? And the whispers the reavers uttered when they thought she was out of reach had not endeared him further to her cause. Rodrik Greyjoy was a dangerous brute, and there was no doubt in her mind that if she had not cast a few rituals and spells along several preparations for his wine and food, the wedding night would see her raped and brutalised. Blood? Saara was a sorceress and controlling if the seed of a man made her pregnant or not was child's play for her. Without hesitation, she had decided this reaver was never going to sire a child in her belly. She would kill herself first.

"From the glorious days of House Greyiron and House Hoare, we pray the Drowned God to give House Greyjoy new children strength and renown..."

Watching the entire Greyjoy family, strength was definitely something they had. The 'Iron King', his brothers and his sons were built like towering masses over the hundreds of highborn and smallfolk who had come to assist to the marriage – and soon sail to war of course. Yes, strength and renown the Greyjoys had, without question.

It was all they had. Victarion, Maron, Rodrik and all the pirates...they were imposing warriors but no God would take them as His or Her Champions. They were just too dumb. Victarion Greyjoy in particular in all likelihood had met fishes which were smarter than his huge carcass. Balon Greyjoy fancied himself a King and a master of war, but his strategic skills were so poor Father's sorcerers had to whisper in his dreams to convince him of a plan which was not pure madness.

At last, the Drowned Priest stopped his nonsense and they got to the important part. Rodrik Greyjoy laced his hands on the black stone – it went without saying there was nothing powerful or enchanted in it.

"Captain Rodrik Greyjoy, do you take Lady Saara Stark to be your wife?"

The Ironborn swelled out his chest and unclasped his midnight-blue cloak.

"Yes."

The gaze he gave her was one of raw lust. Saara knew she would have to make sure he got killed at the first opportunity. Perhaps not Lannisport, but Seagard would do nicely.

"Lady Saara Stark, do you take Captain Rodrik Greyjoy to be your husband?"

Hopefully the next one would be a proper marriage, not this aberration without sorcery and with beggar-drowned Priests.

"Yes," she answered, joining her hands on the stone with those of the Heir of Pyke.

Her grey cloak was thrown to the ground irreverently and the Greyjoy colours were placed on her shoulders.

The first kiss, when it came, was horrid. Rodrik smelled like a powerful and malodorous dead fish. The cheers came but they were filled with voices and male-dominated expressions she really hated.

"May this union be blessed by happiness and fertility for long years!"

That, the young Saara Greyjoy swore, was not going to happen.

* * *

 **Lord Benedict Sentinel 1**

They came out of the swamps at sunset like a tide of darkness and damnation.

Benedict had dreaded and anticipated this moment for the last fortnight. The Seven Kingdoms were at war, and the Northern heretics would not have darkened the skies with their ignoble sorcery if they didn't intend to invade the Riverlands. Sentinel's Stand was the gate they had to crush; there had never been any doubt in his thoughts the monsters would come here.

A night assault had been expected by some of his knights, but unfortunately whoever was in command of the heretics was far too clever to order a storming with so little preparation. His archers had to discourage some skirmishers at the light of the torches, the common raiders with more muscles than brawn wearing the skin of some monstrous beasts, but these were probes and everyone knew it.

And so the defenders of Sentinel's Stand waited and tried to take a good night of rest despite the close presence of the enemy of the Seven. In the night, it was impossible to count the enemies ranks but the thousands of torches flickering in ugly colours were not reassuring at all.

When the grey morning came and his eyes were able to discern the Northern camp, it was almost a relief.

"I count between five and six thousand of them, Father," told his cadet son Aerys. The Lord and Master of the most important citadel of the Small Wall nodded thoughtfully. "Their sorcery is making a more precise count difficult."

Benedict and several of his sons and commanders winced from their position on top of the wall. This was not a great army by any standard, but Sentinel's Stand was defended right now by two thousand and seven hundred men, though more arrived every day from the South. About eight hundred were freeriders, small detachments recruited by lesser Knights and scores of warriors sent by his relatives from House Ryger and House Goodbrook.

So they were facing a superior opponent but the real reason of the bad mood was the confirmation all the 'wild stories' extracted from captured raiders in the last decades were not that ridiculous in the end. Already House Sentinel had been forced to cede the watchtowers and the first defences of the Riverlands without a real battle.

Benedict knew he was going to be blamed for it. But four out of five of his patrols had not returned and the first small towers built to keep the Kingsroad in loyal hands had not lasted long when the heretics had covered them in poisonous green fumes. Four leagues away, he had heard the screams of the men he had sent to their death.

As a consequence, his forces were waiting on the ramparts and the towers of his home fortress. The White Crusade had been called and Ser Edmure Tully had begun a large muster of the Lords of the Trident near the Blue Fork. All he and the warriors under his command had to do was to hold and pray the reinforcements of the great Westerosi Lords Paramount arrived before the core of the heretics' army did.

Lord Benedict Sentinel turned to call his third son.

"Do you recognise any of their banners, Quincy?"

"The bloody axe is House Cerwyn I think, Father," replied the son who was charged to study with the septons the rumours and what little information spies managed to gather from their enemies. "The blue-black banners may be House Flint, but I don't know which branch. The other banners are not from any Noble House I can remember."

In other circumstances, he would have approved ignorance of Northern matters but not here. The enemy army was divided into four big parts and one reserve. From left to right there were symbols of a red axe on a brown-dark field, a blue flame and a tower, a putrid green-swamp thing with no real shape and a gold ring on a pink field. Behind them were banners of a black spear surrounded by a eight-pointed star.

The Northern army was a dreadful spectacle as they formed ranks in the plain in front of the castle he owned. There were no neat lines, and every time you fixed the same banners or the same group of soldiers, his eyes began to hurt. There was no great organisation although you could tell the commanders of this army had made an effort to place the light infantry in the vanguard and the cavalry at the rear.

"I do not see any siege engines, Father," The voice of Tyler, his eldest, was filled with disgust. "What do they hope to achieve? We have archers, ballista and our walls have been blessed. If they try a frontal assault with ladders and ropes, we are going to decimate them."

Yes, Tyler had a good point and this worried Benedict. Heresy damned the soul and destroyed the heart of a man but the Lord of the Sentinel's Stand did not believe alas it made an heretic stupid and unwilling to learn basic tactics. Whoever was in command, he had crossed the Neck in a forced march and come to besiege his fortress. The Northern commander had also taken great care to leave his monsters and warriors outside trebuchet range.

There was something he had missed or wasn't able to guess. And it didn't feel him with joy.

"Maybe they think their demon-loving sorcerers can replace catapults," proposed Andrew, his fourth son. At sixteen name days and recently knighted, Andrew was the youngest of House Sentinel who would participate in the battle to come. Martin was far too young and had accompanied his wife Marianne and his only daughter Leana southwards while the rest of the household worked hard to prepare a welcome the enemies of King Rhaegar were not going to like.

"We have the holy septons and septas of the Convent of Piety," affirmed Quincy after a couple of breaths.

Benedict frowned when about one in three of his captains spat, grumbled or looked away. The Convent of Piety was about the only small Faith-build redoubt between the Twins and his own lands. On parchment, this should have made them incredibly popular, the fist of the light of the Warrior or another noble affirmation close to it. But the septons in charge of this Convent had decided a long time ago they were to oppose the heretic sorcerers with magic rather than Faith, and this had not made them popular either with the highborn or the smallfolk.

One or two had succumbed to the very dark powers they swore to protect the realm in the last fifty years and the secrecy and mysteries they were surrounding themselves had not increased their standing at Riverrun or King's Landing. There were other orders studying and learning the miracles and the blessings of the Seven from Oldtown to Seagard, but the Convent of Piety was small and not likely to grow larger.

That they had been able to send only a score of old men to Sentinel's Stand and twice that number of healers didn't give him the urge to cheer and organise celebrations. They were going to be five or six sorcerers for each of the 'gifted' Septons.

"They have..."

Tyler's next sentence stopped as suddenly the Northern army began to adopt a more disciplined shape. The big four factions were still present however. It was like each part of this army couldn't fight shoulders-to-shoulders with each other.

This left huge gaps between the heretic companies and in this empty space the siege engines came at last. Benedict was not travelling often to the capital and the Crownlands, but he had seen twice the new weapons of the Alchemists and realised what the Northerners had brought.

"Cannons," the Lord of Sentinel's Stand announced before correcting himself when the things became fully visible. "Heretical and sorcery-filled cannons."

The devices had been built to inspired revulsion and malice. Hundreds of feet away, Benedict and his sons were able to acknowledge the demonic threat. No mortal and Faithful smith could have ever built these monstrosities. The long tubes looked like they had been forged in a metal darkest than night and in the shape of demons. Evil runes were shining malevolently on their entire length. In the hole-maw of the infernal device, unnatural flames promising agonising torment were burning.

At this moment, Benedict wanted to order a charge and destroy the Northern cannons without waiting. But when the aurochs-like creatures dragging the cannons stopped, it was far outside the range of his trebuchets. Furthermore, orders rang out in the enemy's army and at an impressive rate magic and hundreds of corpse-like creatures began to dig trenches.

A cavalry charge in this was not going to achieve anything. He had three hundred horses here and they could not be sacrificed in a futile attack.

Unfortunately, this very much confirmed the heretic behind these ideas was methodical and prudent. Not a good combination of traits for him when he had three or four thousand men and monsters to kill before achieving force parity.

High and tall black-armoured figures shrouded in darkness and magical fumes supervised the work, unless they were protecting the cannons nearby.

As what should have taken days for an army of this size was accomplished at three or four times this speed, the battle-cries began to be heard.

"WINTER IS COMING!"

"BOW TO THE TRUE GODS!"

"SLAUGHTER IS CALLING!"

"JOIN THE GRANDFATHER ARMIES!"

"CHANGE IS UPON YOU!"

There were more but the majority were shouted in tongues hurting the very air and which should have never been learned by human mouths.

Then the first cannon-demon thing fired.

Benedict was not a coward. He had fought and bled with his men in countless skirmishes, killed his fair share of swamp mutants and men. This time though he shivered in fear.

The atrocious roar was like the carrion bell of the End of Times itself.

There was no metallic ball or any earthly projectile projected at incredible speed. There was a column of flames and a vague shape of burning darkness ejected from the cannon's overture.

It missed the western tower utterly. Cheers echoed in the courtyard, the summit of his dungeons and the other fortified positions.

Then the other cannons fired and the laughs died. There were about two score of them, and while their precision was horrendous, five hit the walls of Sentinel's Stand.

Wherever the damned things hit, the explosions were terrible and a black-red inferno which could not be natural started.

Benedict screamed new command for the fire-fighting parties to neutralise this threat, temporarily trying to ignore the wrongness of the scene. Fire was always the great enemy of citadels. Yes, Sentinel's Stand was made of stone but like every castle, uncountable wooden trunks had been used since the moment its foundations were built.

But the Northerners fires were not burning this wood. They were burning and melting stone. A feat which according to the maesters and the knowledgeable old men was only possible for wildfire and dragonfire.

To make it worse, his men had just the time to stop three out of five fires before the enemy cannons fired again. And this time the infernal engines were better positioned. Ten heretical fires began their work of destruction and death.

Volley after volley followed and while he ordered his siege engines to throw boulders in retaliation, their efforts were tiny and did not caused much damage to the heretics. The trenches dug did not help matter. Every time one was completed, the holes burst in unnatural flames and acted like massive shields for the enemy.

The Northerners should have been in the range of his ballista now. But when the grey noon came, arrows and rocks were not doing enough damage. They must have killed some scores of light foot, when any normal enemy would have already lost hundreds.

The weather was not raising the morale of his troops. The sky was covered by dark clouds, the sun was pale and sparse and sinister screams were heard in the air.

And he could do nothing against it.

Mortal men he could stand his ground and kill, but he couldn't find a way to stop this fire rain pouring on his troops.

He simply couldn't.

"Prepare the men at the gates," he ordered Tyler. "If the heretic commander wants to launch an assault, this is the moment."

His eldest son struck his plate above his heart in salute before rushing down the stairs and joining his men. Benedict returned his attention to the fire-fighting parties and the battle. He would have given half of his gold for reinforcements right now. One or two thousand men might not seem like a lot for a Lord Paramount, but for House Sentinel on this day it was a question of life and death.

If Ser Stevron managed to rally this old weasel of Walder and gather the Twins' levies, he would have far enough soldiers to give these heretics a bloody nose.

But the warriors of the Twins and the dozens of sons Walder Frey had sired during his long life were not here. And the messengers he had left at different outposts and inns to warn him were not rushing to inform him House Frey was coming to play the role of saviours. And without them...

" **BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD**!"

The power behind the words almost forced him on his knees and Benedict had to fight with all his strength to stand on his old legs. Many of his guards weren't that fortunate. Five or six in front of him were trying to use their surroundings to rise on their own, their ears and their noses bleeding.

On these words the section of the enemy army showing the Cerwyn banners attacked. Benedict showed a grim smile and gave the order for the archers and the trebuchets to decimate this horde. But when the arrows began to slam into the enemies, the sky began to turn red and suddenly the number of enemies tripled in the blink of an eye.

The heretics had received reinforcements...and they were not humans. Even from afar, the new beings were simply wrong. They were mostly red-skinned, with horns and hooves. In their hands were black or red blades. Their faces were sculpted to be representations of executioners and warriors.

The cry among the defenders of Sentinel's Stand could not be suppressed.

"DEMONS! DEMONS!"

The first monsters were stopped well before the walls but the more they killed, the more came to scream their hate. The space between the two armies was taking strange colours of red, yellow and blue. The air was unnaturally shivering. The sky was by moment taking red-purple colours and Benedict was sure this was no sunset.

"Prepare to repel ladders and infiltrators!" Benedict shouted.

These words had not left his lips the rest of the Northern army was entering the fray too. The green-putrid mass advanced slowly but relentlessly, singing in gurgling tones things which were best not heard. A mass of blue and pink horrors spread from a blue lightning and the Flint sorcerers began to throw lengthy blasts and horrifying spells above the ramparts. The sybarite host of pink and weird colours jumped into battle with spectres and shining monsters whispering unnatural things in the warrior's ears.

The septons of the Convent of Piety did their best but in two or three exchanges the brilliant shields they materialised broke under the cruel sorcery. When Quincy came back from one of his assignments, Benedict was told their leading Priest had died, his head transformed into a pumpkin without warning. Twelve others had shared disturbing and bloody ends.

All the while, the demonic cannons didn't stop their sapping work. Volley after volley, they fired and a large part of the outer walls were now in flames. Stocking oil and torches at regular emplacements had not helped the situation, he guessed.

"Losses are heavy, Father," the voice of Aerys was close to panic. "We have already over one hundred men by the healers and twice that many are already dead on the walls and thorough the citadel. "We need..."

The demons reaching the top of the walls interrupted this report. In spite of the efforts of his men, many of the red monsters evaded the efforts to collapse the ladders and when they jumped, they reached the ramparts. And their damned black blades _hurt_. Benedict saw the guard in front of him cleaved in half.

"Khorne wants the blood to flow..." laughed the demon.

"Fuck Khorne! I serve King Rhaegar and the Warrior!" The Lord of Sentinel's Stand boomed, trying to rally his forces. His good sword clashed with the demonic blade.

"Your soul will be consumed..."

The halberd of one of his guards pulverised the monstrous skull from behind, saving him from a duel which was not exactly turning in his favour. These demons were really tough bastards, all right.

The fight continued, more desperate than ever. Sorcery assaulted the ramparts, opening breaches where stone and mortar should have stood for a thousand years. The cannons fired relentlessly, adding their nightmarish flames. They were killing some Northerners for sure but the number of demons they faced made a mockery of the killing. Between five and six thousand living heretics, they had estimated before the first blood was shed. It was a wild guess but he could say there were easily ten thousand of these abominations and from their corpses more were spilling onto the battlefield.

As for the enemy commanders, it was impossible to notice them in this cacophony of unnatural events. Moreover he had never seen any Northern Lord face-to-face, and the black armoured figures, the half-giants and the monsters were all shouting in the same demonic language.

"The eastern tower is overwhelmed, my Lord!" a messenger ran to him with horrible wounds on the left part of his body. At a glance, it was like his blood was changing into a green substance the instant it left his body...by the Crone, Benedict really loathed sorcery. "Their sorcerers are..." Benedict threw himself aside to avoid a sort of revenant shimmering in fallen light. The messenger was too slow and the demon merged with his body. Benedict Sentinel had to kill him as the unfortunate young man's body throbbed and began to mutate.

"Push for the eastern tower, Quincy," he commanded his third son. "Banish their demons, and tell our scorpions to target the sorcerers in priority."

"Father I don't think we have enough men left." The brown hairs of his son were completely dishevelled and a third of it was covered in blood and other fluids. His armour had seen better days.

"We have not the choice," he grunted as he expedited his sword into the skull of another demon. "The towers must hold until sunset. I will not order a withdrawal to the dungeon before..."

His words died in his throat as a red-armoured massive warrior joined the fight on the rampart. Armed with a colossal double axe, the newly-arrived heretic murdered four of his men like they were nothing.

The red aura and the torrents of blood which soaked the stone were sufficient to reveal this was no ordinary warrior.

" **BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! HOUSE CERWYN FOR KHORNE**!"

"COURAGE! HERE WE STAND!"

Quincy and a score of his soldiers rushed to slay this new threat but four more demons materialised and intercepted them. The fight was confusion and death, and Quincy arrived alone with his one-handed sword and his large shield against the heretic.

The first strike of his son was dismissed like it was nothing. Then the great double axe shining with red runes struck the shield and destroyed it with a flash of red.

"NO!"

He tried to fight his way into the carnage but there were more demons and his men were dying. More enemies were coming and between the demons and their sorcerers, he couldn't see anything for a brief moment.

When the Cerwyn monster was once again in his sight, his red gauntlet was holding the decapitated head of Quincy by his hairs.

Range consumed him. Tears came to his eyes. He thought he was screaming. Benedict tried to fight his way again and slay the Northerner but his strength was not enough. They tried a last push to retake the ramparts, but it failed. Two captains and the survivors of his personal guard forced to him retreat.

The race to the dungeons was disastrous. There was no order in the stairs surrounded by flames and sorcery-fuelled fumes. Everywhere the screams of the dying was heard. Great crows fell on the fallen of both sides.

"My Lord, Sentinel's Stand is lost," one of his captains declared, his great helm still on his head and half-destroyed by what looked to be vigorous impact with a warhammer or a mace. "There are too many demons and we can't retake the walls. We must retreat to Cliff Fort or the Twins before they surround us."

"House Sentinel will not flee!" Benedict immediately realised how aggressive his snarl had sounded and softened his voice. "If the heretics take Sentinel's Stand, it will become a dagger at the entrance of the Riverlands. These demons will corrupt the soul of our home and tens of thousands men will lose their lives to retake it. Give the orders to retreat to the dungeon. How fare the gates?"

"Your son is still holding them but I don't know for how long," a purple storm surrounded the northern tower and exploded, precipitating more men to an inglorious death below. "Sorcerers are sending acid on the gates and I saw huge rams being prepared."

Benedict nodded, his heart proud of Tyler and his sons. No matter what happened today, House Sentinel would fulfil this duty as the shield of the Riverlands. There were vows pronounced under the gaze of the Seven-Who-Are-One which had to be upheld, adversity, demonic threats and strategy be damned.

"In this case give the orders for the general retreat."

But the demons had other plans. Just as Benedict was seizing a jug of wine and a piece of bread to regain some strength, an inferno of black flame coalesced around the gates. The noise of the wood and the stone being consumed by the hellish fires was strange and awful.

When it was over...there weren't any gates, doors or walls left. There was just a blackened area, uncountable corpses and an earth-shaking roar of triumph from the Northern army.

"My lord you must go!"

The enemy heavy foot and horse chose this moment to enter the battle. All of this had been clearly prepared beforehand. Their charge was like a mailed fist escorted by demons. Benedict raced to the dungeon but to his shock there was no safety to be found here once he passed the large doors. Winged horrors were attacking his smallfolk and the fire-fighting parties. Men and women were slaughtered by the red demons or possessed by the spectral horrors. There was also cursed fire everywhere.

Benedict Sentinel knew at this moment his fortress was lost. A couple of hundred men had arrived with him and proceeded to kill the abominations the fastest they could, but the defences had already been breached. And in all honesty, there were too many enemies and not enough Faithful soldiers. He had begun this battle with more than two thousand and five hundred men. Between the diverse towers they still held and the detachments coming back, he had likely a third of that and it was a generous estimate.

"It is too late to retreat!" His battle-cry raised swords and shields in unity. "For Sentinel's Stand! For Westeros! For King Rhaegar!"

Then there was fighting and killing until his arms abandoned him. The gates of his dungeons were barred and condemned, but the enemy still came from the flames, from the blood and from the very Hells. The air and the skies were tortured by sorcery, demons and abominations.

His sons Aerys and Andrew were with him, helping him rest and give orders when the battle became too hard for him. Of Tyler there was no trace and he feared the worst: the last men who had seen him told him he was fighting against a monster of pestilence and flies.

"The stone under our feet is changing!" Indeed the very pavement was transforming into a reddish-brown substance. "What sort of sorcery is this?"

"The worst kind, my son," he replied to Aerys. "The worst kind..."

The ancestral gates of House Sentinel ceded not long after this. It was a bitter disappointment. Their creation had been commissioned in his grandfather's time, and the septons and artisans who had been involved in this endeavour had swore to his family no evil force would be able to breach it, should they besiege it a hundred years with one hundred thousand abominations.

The emptiness of these boasts was truly revealed now. In an apocalyptic crash, the last line of defence ceded and a black warrior with a long lance of obsidian colour entered the redoubt of House Sentinel, dozens of demons and plate-armoured humans on his heels.

"What are you waiting for?" This was in all likelihood his last order as the Lord of this Noble House. "Kill him! Send him and all these demons in the Seven Hells where they belong!"

His men charged...and the enemy commander threw his lance like a javelin, impaling Andrew and three other knights after a flash of black sorcery blinded temporarily his senses.

"YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS!"

He tried to charge the Chaos equivalent of a great knight, cutting heads, legs and arms which were in his way.

Benedict saw too late the demon which tore apart the upper part of his armour protecting his back. The bite in his neck forced him to scream...and then the rage he felt dissipated as his mind flickered and died under a dark sky.

* * *

 **Ser Jory Cassel 1**

The Southern warriors were really meek, pathetic and the support their so-called 'New Gods' left much to desire. Jory had thought he would need five or six days of siege to breach the walls of Sentinel's Stand. His plans had been based on the report of the rare cultists visiting the lands of House Sentinel, the size of the fortress itself and many other factors like his own experience under Lord Rickard in humbling unruly Host Lords.

But he had not imagined in his wildest dreams the vanguard he had received the command of would breach the walls and storm Sentinel's Stand in a single day.

It was by all accounts a devastating victory...and it now created for him some problems for both the Riverlands reinforcements and Lord Stark army were far from his position. The achievement was impressive, but it had screwed uncountable plans, forcing him to improvise.

"How many warriors did we lose?" He asked Jonelle Cerwyn while keeping his eyes on the chained man calling himself Ser Aerys Sentinel. Of the members of His House who had fought in this one-sided bloodbath, the second son had been the sole survivor. He was going to regret it before the day was over.

"Flint lost five sorcerers and between the four Hosts and the raiders, two hundred fighting men and women are dining with the Gods. We have three hundred wounded, but two out of three can be saved if we don't fight another battle in the next two days."

The voice of the axe-wielder was almost calm today, a rarity if there ever was one. On the other hand, the trail of blood and viscera she had created during the storming had been so deep even the God of Blood and War must have been slightly sated by this amount of devotion.

"The enemy?"

It was Lord Bog Boggs who answered his demand.

"Two thousand and four hundred souls are fertilising the gardens of the Grandfather with more to come. Two hundred Riverlanders soldiers and one thousand smallfolk have been captured."

The soldiers were barely worth the name and certainly didn't deserve joining the Hosts.

"The smallfolk with be divided in five equal parts and given to each Host," his subordinate commanders made noises of approval and excitation. "I don't care what who do with them. Convert them to the True Gods, feed their souls to the Ascended or create new agents after you break their minds and bodies. The soldiers however will be used for the ritual to consecrate this castle. The failure of these cowards to die in the defence of their home will be exploited for our purpose."

"Sentinel's Stand will be a true bastion of War, Change, Life and Pleasure by the time the Crusaders arrive, Black Spear," Robin Flint obviously cherished the idea of perverting the works of the South. "And the son of the deceased Lord Sentinel will be a powerful instrument."

The namesake of the recently defunct King of Westeros chose this opportunity to shout what he had left of defiance.

"HERETICS! YOU THINK YOU'VE WON? HOUSE SENTINEL IS NOT DEAD AND SOON MY BROTHER WILL LEAD THE RIVERLANDS ARMIES HERE! YOU WILL BE PURGED AND EXTERMINATED!"

Jory looked at the red sky, distinctly unimpressed.

"Your last brother is sucking your mother's tits, Sentinel. And if all the Riverlanders fight like you do, my army will trounce your Noble Houses and your knights by the hundreds. The Southern warriors speak a lot, but they appear to be challenged when it is time to back their boasts with steel and great deeds."

"Your arrogance will be your doom, monster."

"I prefer it to weakness, incompetence and lamentable war preparations." The Cassel warrior smirked before striking his prisoner with his armoured fist twice to teach him the price of insolence. "Where are your Seven and your miracles when you really need them?"

"Kill me and finish this mummer's farce," Ser Aerys spat blood and two of his injuries reopened after the small beating he gave.

"But I'm not going to kill you, Ser," the eyes of his prisoner widened in incomprehension. "We are going to make you the Lord of Sentinel's Stand...forever."

* * *

 **Ser Patrek Mallister 3**

"Edmure's muster is too slow," said Myles in an acid remark once their force was two leagues away from the sprawling mass where the flower of the Riverlands chivalry was gathering.

Patrek thanked the Crone his cousin and Heir to Seagard had been willing to wait to be outside anybody important listening range before exploding. Criticizing like Myles had just did the Heir of a Lord Paramount was not treason, but it would have invited more than a few comments and the influence of House Mallister in days to come would be under attack by other highborn challengers.

Besides, Edmure was their friend and stabbing him in the back like this would not have improved his skills or his confidence. And the son of Hoster Tully needed them when the Seven Kingdoms were suddenly without any warning sign answering the call to arms for a Crusade.

"He has many Lords causing him problems," this was not an excuse but it didn't help either. "The Brackens and the Blackwoods, the Vances and the Keaths, the Darrys and the Whents...I think we are lucky the Freys are further north and already mobilising to help the Small Wall..."

"Yes," convened Myles impatiently, "but it has been a moon and the great muster of the Riverlands is terribly organised. The Hereward Fields where the army is mustering had less than thirty thousand men last time I checked, and the Noble Houses are arriving slowly and in tiny companies. It is going to take days for them to march northwards in anything looking like a proper army."

Patrek opened his mouth before deciding he didn't want to argue with his cousin. In truth, Edmure's choice to order the muster at the Hereward Fields was contestable and contested. This large plain was situated between the Red and the Blue Fork, which made the next travel of the Tully-led army quite evident: cross the bridges over the Blue Fork like Myles and he were about to at Fairmarket, then direction the Twins before marching on the Kingsroad and arriving to Sentinel's Stand.

"And at a moment we need every Lord and Knight's strength to bar the paths out of the Neck, most Lords don't take their true strength with them. Take the Blackwoods: they could arm three thousand, maybe four thousand if they want to commit their men and open their coffers. But this old fox of Tytos came with just one thousand spears and Edmure welcomed him like he was the Crown Prince!"

Likely making the remark that House Blackwood was not going to send the totality of its crusade when they had been worshipping the heretical religion until fifteen days ago may not be appreciated, Patrek guessed.

"House Blackwood is dancing around betrayal like a raven circle around a corpse, yes. But there are other Houses too who shirk on their duties. House Piper could have done far better than one thousand and six hundred swords. The Whents have sent ravens after ravens and in the end, they arrived with eight hundred warriors. The two branches of House Vance have rallied three thousand to their banners when we both know they have the men for six or seven thousand. House Goodbrook left half of its strength at home with seven hundred foot and two hundred horse."

Patrek decided to interrupt before his cousin recited House by House who had failed in his oath-bound obligations and who hadn't.

"It is not that bad...you forget neither the Twins nor all the forts have the supplies in their larders and their granaries to feed huge armies like the one Edmure musters. Don't forget the Crusaders armed by the Faith and the High Septon are on the other side of the Green Fork with twenty thousand and the might of the Crownlands is days behind them."

Between the host Myles' father mustered at Seagard, the garrison of the Twins, the Frey bannersmen, the defenders of the Small Wall, Edmure's army and the Faithful desiring to accomplish the will of the Seven Heavens, there would be more than sixty-five thousand swords, spears, axes and bow to destroy the heretics and make the Northern lands compliant.

When they would be on the same field in front of Sentinel's Stand, this would be the greatest army ever fielded by the Iron Throne in living memory...and it would be just the beginning. The Lannisters, the Arryns, the Baratheons and the Tyrells would all come, hundreds or leagues or not, to find honour, glory and fortune under the eyes of their new Targaryen King.

"You don't worry enough," Myles retorted with a gloomy look and pointing his hand in the direction of the dark clouds of storm waiting northwards. "The Riverlands are under threat and we should have begun our muster moons ago...the heretics knew they were going to assassinate the King and have prepared their monstrous armies to invade at the moment of their choosing."

"Even assuming the North sends us everything they have, we're speaking of thirty thousand men," said thoughtfully Patrek. " We will have twice than that and as the West, the East and the Crown reinforces us, we can make our losses good in days. Plus as you've said many Houses had their men-at-arms stay in their castles: we won't lack reserves if we need them."

"Perhaps," agreed the Heir to Seagard, "but I will feel better when our armies will take position on the ramparts of Sentinel's Stand..."

* * *

 **Tyrion Lannister 4**

In one moon, Tyrion had quickly arrived to a logical conclusion for the mummer's farce which had led him to his current duties. He figured he might as well share it with his second-in-command.

"Bronn, I hate army's life," the last son of Lord Tywin Lannister complained.

"You will get used to it, Captain-Quartermaster," was the sardonic reply he received with a neat mockery on his military title.

Tyrion exhaled loudly. Why could the sellsword not feel some awe and respect at the skills of his superior?

"I am getting used to it," the dwarf retorted, "and I don't like what I see."

This was a very polite way to present his lack of satisfaction and Bronn knew it.

"The Fourth Grand Company is the shame of this army," he told in a murmur. Appearances had to be preserved, for what they were worth. "I can find a way to pay them the silver and the bronze at the end of each moon they hired for, but only a miracle of the Father can make them skilled warriors!"

His Lord Father had found a new and unpleasant punishment, by the tits of the Maiden. Looking at the great army camping on both sides of the Kingsroad, Tyrion wondered how many of his cousins were laughing at his predicament in the entrails of Casterly Rock.

Tyrion could handle the duties of a Quartermaster with Pod. Handling the flow of money was something he had always a gift for. But commanding men was not one of his talents. His very size forbid he fought in the first lines and he would never be squired, never mind knighted.

If he had been given a group of veteran Red Cloaks and skilled officers, it could have worked. But he was in a Crownlands force, and the boys he had been given were the dregs of the dregs. Young men who had been a few days away before they were sent to the Black Ships, Goldcloaks which had fallen out of favour with their officers, thieves of Fleabottom, smugglers of the capital's harbour and unsavoury sellswords preying on merchant convoys when the times were hard.

The sum of this could not be described as 'good' by any definition of the term he had read.

The Fourth Grand Company was a disaster waiting to happen. The five hundred men under his command had not yet managed to complete a training exercise without two or three monumental fuck-ups. What they would do the day they met the enemy, Tyrion preferred not to think about it.

"What I would not give for proper officers..."

Usually highborn commanders and knights should have been available to help him transform this crow-meat into something looking vaguely like a fighting force. But by a strange coincidence which reeked of someone's duplicity, the Noble House assigned to the Fourth Grand Company had been House Hollard and the men-at-arms were commanded by a knight named Ser Dontos.

By Malal, Tyrion was ready to swear he had never heard of the Heir of Hollard Hall before today. It was unfortunate really. Because if he had learned beforehand Dontos was to be his third-in-command of the Great Company and provide most of his training cadre, he would have returned to Casterly Rock, duty or no duty, army or no army, Chaos or Order be damned.

Dontos was loud, boisterous, incompetent even by Tyrion's standards – which were very low – and a drunkard. Now the dwarf loved wine cups and was drinking his sorrows each evening, but Dontos was permanently drunk on the morning, on the afternoon and at night, duty or no duty. Worse, most of his men were imitating him. The Crownlands wineries were only too happy to sell them barrels as long as he had his back turned.

"We will just have to hope the heretics are worse than us in that regard," fat chance of that of course; to be that bad, you had to actively try.

Bronn snorted in derision at that thought.

"Our archers can't hit a damned target at fifty feet and they have crossbows, not longbows to shoot with. Our spearsmen can form a correct line if they are given most of the day to prepare and they don't forget their shields somewhere. We have no siege engines or any of the new weapons imagined by the Alchemists."

It was probably for the best, now that he thought about it. The Kingslanders under his command were hard pressed to stand in line and find their weapons when the trumpets called for march or training time; giving them larger and more dangerous weapons was not an intelligent thing to do.

But this still meant he had one hundred archers, three hundred heavy shields with spears and one hundred swordsmen that were going to break when they faced their first real skirmish. Bronn knew it, Tyrion knew it and Pod knew it. Seven Hells, even Dontos knew it...when he was sober.

Meagre reassurance, they were in army of forty thousand souls so maybe the rest of the Crown knights and warriors would save their asses when the bloodshed started.

Maybe if he repeated a hundred times that, he would even convince himself. Tyrion sighed, wishing he had a girl with nice tits in his couch for the night and not mountains of reports and problems to peruse.

"I hate army's life..."

* * *

 **Lady Saara Greyjoy 3**

As long as plans of rebellions against the snakes pretending dragons had been made, the fleets of the Sunset Sea had caused a major problem to Winterfell.

The North had warships on the western coast obviously. The problem was...their potential opponents had fleets too. Better and often more experienced crews, and with numbers largely superior to their own. Whether they wanted to admit or not, the Northern Champions and commanders had to face the reality: the North was not a redoubtable naval power. Ah, if only they had been able to unite the warships of both coasts in a grand fleet...but no one having found a spell or a few billions dragons to create a canal without sinking half of the continent and provoking the wrath of the Gods. This was a problem which would remain with them for centuries to come.

The alliance with the Ironborn had broken the threat of an imminent invasion from the Sunset Sea. Saara had not only sailed to Pyke with a wedding dress. She had also given to these brutes of Greyjoy the defence dispositions of all the harbours and coastal fortresses the North had not the means to raze in the grand opening of the Black Crusade.

Balon Greyjoy, his brother and his sons were dim-witted, but even they could decently not fail when they were provided this kind of priceless advantage.

And now from the eyes of ten purpose-bred owls she had brought with her south, Saara watched the results.

By Khorne's flaming sword, it was glorious.

The sea front of Lannisport was in flames as the Ironborn fleet retreated, the reavers taking with them gold, captives and loot from the city.

The Lannisport fleet which had been built to prevent exactly this sort of grand raid was joyously burning in the harbour. As far as she could discern, there had been nearly twenty-five war galleys of imposing size and fifteen carracks guarding the approaches of the greatest city of the West. Two of said galleys were now towed away by the great longships of the Iron Fleet. The rest of the Lannister-built warships were sunk or burning. Saara was rather sure hundreds of sailors were already dead, and the death count was not going to stop quickly as the surviving defenders shot from the walls their bolts and other long-distance projectiles in a vain attempt to touch the defilers of their harbour.

In one sentence to sum-up the battle, the Westerlands had stopped being a naval power after this one-sided butchery.

This outcome, unfortunately, didn't mean it was a complete disaster for Lord Tywin and House Lannister. Assuredly, all warships were lost and irreparable, but Lannisport was mostly untouched saved the naval facilities. Dry wood, turpentine, ropes, barrels and the like were terribly vulnerable to fire, but the stone walls were not and the forces mustered for the Crusade nearby had been a little too fast to intervene. Still, this was a victory and Ironborn losses were limited, which was going to make them more confident, not less.

For more than a turn of hourglass she maintained control of the birds, watching what they saw – and as they were nocturnal birds, it was like she observed the Western harbour in daylight. The prow of the Lannister flagship, a big golden lion barring fangs and claws, disappeared under waves inch by inch until only bubbles were left to indicate it had existed. Thousands of smallfolk and fire-fighting parties were press-ganged by the so-noble Lannisters to extinguish the fires.

Finally satisfied, she broke the connection after pushing the impulse for her little helpers to come back to Pyke after their night hunt. When she opened once again her eyes, she was in the grey and moderately cold bedroom of Pyke.

"Enjoy the taste of defeat, oh Great Lion. There are many more coming your way."

* * *

 **Author's note** : Well, the Crusades have truly begun. Lannisport and Sentinel's Stand have been the first locations to realise this affair is NOT going to be a one-sided punishment of the heretics. The armies are gathering, the skies are red and everywhere old and new threats rise for a great war. Summer is over, autumn is here and with autumn, the fallen leaves are going to drown in blood.

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	8. Release the Kraken

**Chapter 8**

 **Release the Kraken**

 **Lord Triston Sunderland 1**

Triston Sunderland was angry. He loathed the Northerners and their heretical ways. He hated the sorcerers of White Harbor and their abominations.

But above all, he was utterly mad when he thought about the Lord Paramount he had sworn his allegiance to.

House Sunderland and its Knights were loyal bannersmen of House Arryn. They paid their taxes in time, travelled to the Eyrie to bend the knee and renew their oaths every time it was asked for them. They had even raided the trade between the North and Braavos when it was asked for them. They protected the northern approaches of the Vale for the last century without complaining.

But when he asked for reinforcements against an imminent Northern invasion, suddenly he was told to hold as long as possible and given a couple of hundred men-at-arms from the south who didn't know how to wield a spear.

This was just one insult in a sea of ignorance and humiliation. It had been nearly ten days after the heretics started to unleash their sorcery-fuelled storms that the ravens had finally been sent to him, giving him his orders for the mustering Crusade. House Sunderland, House Borrell, House Longthorpe and House Torrent had to provide four thousand men and seventy warships for this new war. When the Eastern Fleet would sail into the Bite and wipe out the heretics' naval forces, the Sunderland-led fleet would join this fleet and assault White Harbor.

Triston wondered the name of the imbecile who had imagined this plan, if only to remove his head from his shoulders.

Yes, the Three Sisters had these forces on hand. If they placed spears and swords on the hands of the entire male population, from the youngsters to the grey beards. If his coffers were sufficiently full to pay for the expenses of forging and supplying such a large force. If they didn't suffer any losses in the storms – and since they had already five of his small galleys damaged by the waves and the winds, he wasn't holding much hope for this point.

And all of this assumed he could muster the warships and the soldiers of the Three Sisters in a single place.

Triston Sunderland couldn't.

Oh, he could have ordered his bannersmen Longthorpe and Torrent to come at Sisterton. They wouldn't have obeyed, though.

When heretical sorcery was seen intermittently north, storms raged and the Manderly fleet was days away from sailing, the Lords of the Three Sisters were not going to leave their homes undefended. Not when the Arryn and Royal Fleets were likely fortnights or moons away, unable to save them. Not when the terrible weather forbid them to evacuate their families, the women and the children of the smallfolk and every non-fighter to the Vale.

It didn't make any sense. By all rights, all the Crusade preparations save the ones concerning the Small Wall of the Riverlands should have been focused on holding the Three Sisters well before the storm came. As long as the Bite was in loyal hands, the Northern trade was disrupted, the Iron Throne had a sword pushed against the throats of the eastern heretic warlords and the traitors wouldn't be able to supply their armies if they attacked the Freys and the Sentinels.

It didn't make any sense, and yet he was, with twenty small galleys and fourteen hastily converted merchant ships, barely two thousand men and whatever sellswords could be hired on such short notice. The greatest blow of the heretics in untold generations was coming to Sisterton, and he could do nothing but wait, complete some of the last fortifications done during the last decade and pray the Seven it was enough.

"We will be forced to concede the outer defences quickly, if they come in large numbers," he said grimly to his sons, his eyes fixed on the large and detailed map showing the details of the Bay of Sisterton. "The scorpions we have on the two watchtowers defending the entrance are old and can't shoot their bolts to stop a small squadron."

"But Father, if we stay in the Bay and the heretics land their forces in huge numbers, we won't be able to repulse them and they will sack the town," said in a worried tone his third son Jasper.

"If they land, sacking the town is the least they will do," commented Uthor, the eldest of the seven sons he had been lucky to sire with his wife. "The Northerners respect nothing. They love their demonic masters and will pillage septs and sacred places before setting fire to their roofs and altars."

His eldest son had a very good point. But he didn't see how to prevent it. The only really two defensible locations of Sisterton were his own castle, Wave's Redoubt, and the holdfast of House Borrell, Breakwater. They were also, by strange happenstance, the only structures completely built in stone. Sisterton was a small town by Vale standards, and even the Long Summer had not been enough to transform the former smuggler's den in a nice and proper city. Houses were in straw and mud, roofs were leaking during the big rains and his smallfolk were a turbulent sort.

As much as the idea gave him pain in his throat and his belly, he had to hold the castles and let the surplus men crew the warships and the water front. If the heretics attacked in strength, he could hold his castle and since House Borrell had one too, the invaders would be forced to make a double encirclement, stretching their forces.

As autumn was here and no harvest could be done anymore, the Northerners would be forced to win fast, starve, or withdraw. The latter was the favourite outcome, in his eyes.

"We will pray the Warrior, and if one opportunity to strike part of the Manderly fleet is granted to us by the Seven, we will strike. If they don't, I see no other recourse than taking refuge in this castle and enduring what will be a long and unpleasant siege."

Uthor, Oswell, Jasper, Dywen and Jacar nodded with faces varying between grim acceptance and relief. Hugo and Jon, being the youngest, looked at him with betrayed expressions.

And indeed it was Hugo who voiced the first objection.

"Ah Father, Breakwater and Wave's Redoubt Castles can't welcome the population of Sisterton inside our hall and our towers...

"You're right. They don't. It is why we will not let them enter our home." It wasn't filling him with joy. But his House food reserves were terribly small, even after the Long Summer. His desires to build a larger granary and preparing new basements for the storage of food had not met the approval of the smallfolk, who had demanded he sold the armours, the steeds and the weapons of his children first. It was absolutely preposterous, but without money and strong arms, nothing had been done. He was not going to sacrifice his ability to endure a siege for those ungrateful vagrants.

"Father, we were made knights by the light of the Seven! It is our duty to protect the innocent against the evils of the demons, the traitors and the heretics! We have sworn vows to defend the just!"

"It is not a fairy tale, Jon!" Triston shouted back, annoyed by his youngest outburst. In hindsight, he should have seized 'Ser Jon' moons ago and spoken to him. These tales had no place on the battlefield, not when the enemy was going to be stronger than them. "The Manderly fleet has close to a hundred warships and thousands of monsters to ravage our shores and we will be lucky if they decide to divide their forces between all our castles..."

Like conjured by a curse, three knows were struck against the door, and once given the command, a messenger with an hirsute beard and a chainmail too big for his average body entered with a gloomy light in his eyes.

"My Lord, the storm is calming. There are a lot of sails on the horizon, according to the Port's Master. The heretics are coming."

* * *

 **Marwyn the Mage 2**

In Marwyn's opinion, the Three Sisters were tangible proof the Gods of this world were sadists.

The three islands sworn to house Arryn could have been anywhere else in the Shivering Sea, and they would certainly have been forgotten. Maybe Braavos or Lorath would have deigned building an outpost or two, a fishery or something like that. Most likely they would have explored said islands and returned home disappointed.

But since the Three Sisters were located in the Bite, said rocks had become the favourite battlefield the Direwolves and the Falcons fought over the moment they felt cheated by a treaty, had some large number of pesky cousins to get rid of or just because they wanted a good-old war.

In several centuries, no, millennia, the soil of the Three Sisters had swallowed seas of Vale and Northern blood.

Today was going to add more of the precious red liquid, of this he had absolutely no doubt.

"I profess I am curious, Admiral. What sort of trickery do you have in mind to defeat the Sistermen's fleet?" The former Archmaester asked.

"I'm not sure these hulls can qualify as a fleet," replied jovially Wendel Manderly, Admiral of the White Harbor Fleet, Sea Champion of the Goddess Slaanesh and Defiler of the Waves. "Yes, House Sunderland says they have more than thirty galleys, but really, those are just fisherman's ships. Putting forty oars on their sides and a scorpion on their deck will not make them in one day become the rulers of the waves."

The Northern commander for several heartbeats fixed the distant island and the sails of the Sisterton fleet with a frightening gaze which almost made him forget the sheer width of Lord Manderly's second son. The moment didn't last, however, and soon enough a new pastry was swallowed by the massive mouth, reminding him this man may very well have the corpulence of an elephant before the next decade was over.

"But to answer your question Mage, I thought long and hard of the dreadful fate I wanted to curse the Three Sisters with. My Father ordered me to avoid provoking a cataclysm, thus sinking the archipelago under the waves with a mass sacrifice of beastmen was out. We could have manifested poison clouds over their lands and waited as they slowly suffocated and their population murdered each other in panic, but we are in a hurry and besides, this is absolutely boring. Most of our sorcerers are recruited for the Wall or the Riverlands and so I can't conjure a hundred thousand soldiers of the Goddess and teach them their gods are empty shells.

In the end, I decided to take inspiration from the tactics of our new 'allies' the Ironborn. Please follow me."

Marwyn frowned as he followed the fat Northerner towards a ritual circle several minor sorcerers had been busy preparing. No, he amended, they hadn't been preparing it; they had just activated it; the thing had evidently been painted in blood on the scales of a massive fish-like creature he had never seen before in his life several days ago and it had been brought under the sky right now.

But what had this complex set of runes in common with the Ironborn? The Drowned Priests sometimes Gifted practitioners in their ranks, but their abilities to command wave and wind were really minor compared to his skills or those the Manderly sorcerers had shown him day and night. Aside from that, there was not much to take inspiration from in this degenerate culture. Ironborn despised weakness, they wanted to pay the iron price at all costs, never mind that it destroyed most of their merchant trade and branded them forever as outcasts. The Greyjoys and their bannersmen were reavers – pirates in everything but name – and when they didn't try to rebel, they pillaged, raped, and drank themselves to death in the worst taverns of Essos and the Stepstones.

"Read this script," he was commanded while handed a massive roll of parchment. Marwyn obeyed, and after reading the first lines winced.

"These are powerful words, Admiral. The structure and the glyphs you want to use are efficient for necromancy but lack flexibility for any other ritual."

He didn't say more, but he was wondering what the Northerners had intended to animate from the grave. To his knowledge, there were no corpses on the deck or in the depths of the hull. To make things stranger, the eight ships of the vanguard – including the one he was currently on – gained more and more speed and distanced the rest of the Northern fleet, keeping a very loose formation.

Marwyn wasn't going to pretend he had the skills of a sellsword officer, but this appeared to be a very dangerous formation to fight a battle, especially as the Sisterton fleet was sallying out of its base, trying to seize the opportunity of crushing them separately before the rest of the Manderly forces intervened.

"Yes, they are. Now prepare to pour your strength in the runes, the ritual needs to be completed before the Sistermen are upon us."

Wendel Manderly had taken a stern expression, and all aboard the Pride of White Harbor heeded his commands without discussion anymore. One by one the eight ships of the vanguard stopped and the sorcerers commenced their incantations. Pulsing runes rose above the warships and heartbeat by heartbeat, a ritual circle was created by the Gift-users, bringing the powers of Gods in this world.

Some energy was lost in the process, of course. Rituals were complicated things on land, and being at sea augmented the difficulty. Energy was lost. Power which was not meant for simple mortals to wield was unleashed upon the sea. Several sailors covered themselves in scales, feathers or fur before succumbing to insanity or imploding in flesh and dark blood.

Sure enough, the fleet of Sisterton tried to come upon them faster, realising their only hope of victory was to strike them before the ritual was completed. Oars struck the dark waves with desperation, the great blue-grey sails were trimmed to a degree it was imprudent in the Bite's waters and Marwyn could see men running on the converted fishermen and occasional smugglers.

They were too late.

His forces and those of a hundred sorcerers were heavily taxed, but suddenly the magic was concentrated and sent to the bottom of the sea. Instantly, Marwyn felt the corpse of the being Wendel Manderly intended to animate and knew the Sunderland fleet had just thrown itself in the jaws of death.

The ritual was ending. The creature which had died would not be used for long before breaking apart – there were limits to everything, and using the strength of a hundred sorcerers continuously would be extremely wasteful – but it worked.

The Vale-sworn naval forces were nearly upon them now. A few minutes, and close to two scores warships would fall upon the dispersed eight Manderly ones.

"The time has come. RELEASE THE KRAKEN!"

A tendril surged out of the waves and struck the leading galley like a human threw a candle at the other end of the room. The impact was monumental and the Sunderland sailors had no warning. Their warship flew for the first and last time, before crashing into another galley, generating more chaos.

It was just the first blow, and as more tendrils emerged from the dark waters, the Sistermen screamed in terror. Their shouts and prayers were so loud they were perfectly audible from his position.

"Where are the Seven now you need their protection, heathens?"

Wendel Manderly's ritual had animated a dead kraken whose bones had been lying at the bottom of the sea. Yes, with hindsight, the Ironborn inspiration was amusing. Alas, it wasn't very efficient. The bones had been dead for too long, the very magic of the animal had been sucked out when humanity was still young and the Valyrians mere shepherds. Already the fury given to the dead body was lessening, the bone-tentacles slowing down and abandoning their implacable strikes. In a hundred heartbeats, the corpse of the legendary creature would return to its dark cemetery and this time the oblivion would be permanent.

For this battle, it didn't matter. The fleet of the Three Sisters had been methodically pulverised and now the air brought with it the agonising screams and the cries for help of the defeated. Not everything had gone right: two of the Northern warships which had been the closest from the Sisterton hulls were severely damaged and would need days of repair in Northern shipyards.

Still, the enemy naval forces were gone and for an insignificant price.

"I think," Wendel Manderly announced with a ferocious smile, "that our Goddess has manifested Her Will quite clearly. Put back our Host in a proper battle-formation, Captain! Sisterton awaits and our gluttony is going to be satisfied!"

* * *

 **Lord Triston Sunderland 2**

"If I had known we would lose them without sinking a single enemy ship, I would never have sent them out of the Bay."

It was a pitiful excuse, and the Lord of Sweetsister knew it. But he had to say it. His knights, sailors and all the men who had just perished deserved this apology. Oswell, the son he had sent to an inglorious and useless death, deserved it.

He hadn't known the true depths of the madness and the corruption hiding in the Northerner's hearts. What sort of madman thought rising a monstrous kraken was an acceptable strategy to win a small naval battle?

The Starks, the Manderlys and all their bannersmen were monstrous heretics, servants of abominations and creatures destined for the Seven Hells. Alas, unless he was granted a miracle by the Father Above or the Warrior, the depravity and the corruption of his enemies wasn't going to change the fate of his House.

"Give a last meal to our men," he ordered his third son Jasper as the dark clouds above his head poured a cold rain on the ramparts and the heads of the Sisterton defenders. "Then we will open all the armouries and light all the fires. Prepare the scorpions and the archers with fire arrows and bolts."

If the enemy was pirates, slavers or corsairs from the Narrow Sea and the Free Cities, these would have been redoubtable weapons. But against a force which thought animating a monster of the Age of Heroes was a good idea, what was he supposed to do? Northerners were sinners and monsters, but he hadn't the strength to kill them. Maybe the Vale fleet of Gulltown had the power to oppose these heretics, though he wasn't as confident as he had been this morning. Great sailors or no, the courage and the sea skills were of little value when dead monsters rose back to wreck a last vengeance.

"They are coming," reported Hugo, returning from the outer watchtower. "They have at least sixty warships, and most are filled with marauders and traitor sellswords. The veterans think there will be between six and seven thousand heretics for this assault."

Hopefully, this would mean six thousand against two thousand. Six thousand traitors supported by sorcerers and whatever sort of monsters had been bought by demonic pacts and the promise of a grand carnage.

"House Sunderland will not flee."

Not that they had been able to escape, with the stormy seas and the privateers of the Northern fleet ready to pounce on them.

"House Sunderland will hold and when dawn will return, our colours will fly high and defiant! The enemies will be dead or in full retreat, ready to crawl back in the darkness their kind sold their souls!"

A few soldiers cheered and struck their steel axes and swords against their shields, but many remained silent. The terrible appearance of the dead kraken had been a terrible blow to the moral blow of his men-at-arms, and he couldn't honestly find anything to give them the idea victory was still possible. Rain was pouring now, and though fires were burning thanks to whale oil and coal, the flames were far smaller than they would have been on one of these sunny summer days.

The watchtowers began to fire at the incoming warships, followed heartbeats later by the other siege engines which had been ready in time for this Crusade. It was difficult to see so far in this rainy weather, but the fire bolts didn't appear to cause a lot of casualties.

Less than a dozen breaths later, the heretics launched their first strike against the bastions of the Three Sisters. Purple clouds coalesced around the watchtowers and elements raged in a manner which was absolutely unnatural. A gigantic wave submerged the water front, drowning scores of honest men. In one instant the defence failed and as his men ran for their lives, the Northerners began to land their troops in the Bay. The initial numbers had probably been overestimated, he figured. There were large columns of raiders, but not more than three thousand heretics.

"Maybe we will be able to endure a siege if their sorcerers tired themselves..."

It was asking for a miracle, but surely the Seven would intervene to save their true worshippers? The Mother in its aspect of Guardian of the Seas was a Holy Patron of the Three Sisters...

"We must..." what had he been saying...he had almost the command on his tongue...strange he wasn't seeing the waterfront there was so much pink smoke... "We must..."

"MORE! MORE!" The familiar clash of steel on the walls and the courtyard made him turn his head. Had the enemy somehow sent assassins before they began their attack? But as he watched his men fight each other, he saw no enemy. There was no enemy, just proud Sistermen fighting each other and giggling as they did it!

"Stop this madness! STOP THIS MADNESS!"

A warhammer struck him like thunder and Lord Triston Sunderland collapsed on the humid stones of his castle's rampart. His world was now a realm of pain and screams. There were abominations crawling out of the smoke...no, NO, NO!

"For the Goddess, love and lust must reign eternally," the words were whispered in his ears. And then the dagger slit his throat and the world was darkness.

* * *

 **Lady Asha Stark 6**

When House Stark wanted to travel 'fast', the concept of 'rapidity' shown by its members put the rest of Westeros to shame.

As the daughter of Balon Greyjoy, Asha knew that should have her father organised large celebrations, the majority of Pyke would have been dead drunk for the next ten days and maybe more. Gathering the ships, the weapons and the men to go to war would take at least a moon. And in the last years she had sailed the Summer and the Narrow Sea, the rest of the Greenlanders were far worse than them. No doubt that when a Reach Lord called his banners, half of his levies would be unable to tell if they had a sword or a spear in their hands.

The North though? Two nights and one day after she and Torrhen had consumed ten times their union in a very soft and large bed, they were once again on the road. And by 'they', Asha included Torrhen, Arya, Cregan, Lord Eddard Stark and over ten thousand armoured Northerners, their war chariots, five giants, different types of animals which might well look like demons before they saluted you in the Common Tongue, food carts, water and ale barrels, sorcerers and their strange experiments and thousands of other things.

Whatever else could be said about the denizens of Winterfell, there was no denying they had mastered the art of supplying their troops. There were ranks after ranks of terrible cavaliers and heavy footmen in plate armour. Oh, there were other warriors in leather armour or lighter outfits, but it seemed a deliberate choice. An archer or an axe-thrower could hardly be mobile and efficient if he wasn't able to shoot his arrows and evade the enemy moves.

She would regret not having the time to appreciate more Winterfell. The baths alone, warmed by the hot springs and some subtle magical artifices, were something you might sell one arm and one leg to enjoy every day. And they were only in early autumn.

That said, there had never been any question to stay in the capital of the North while the great conflict raged and her husband went to war. Asha wasn't going to wait at home while her family, the old and the new, fought for the future of the Seven Kingdoms. The very morning after their wedding night, she had been granted access to the forges of Winterfell best rune-smiths, and in record time the Northerners had begun to work on the equipment she would be protected with on the battlefield. By the time they had left the Stark citadel – a feat she was ready to bet to be an exploit of magic and skill – she was clad in black armour with shining gold runes of the Four Gods. It was an armour similar to what Torrhen wore himself, in more ways than one.

The rest had been a rush southwards. Asha had wondered once or twice what her brothers would think watching her now: armoured in black and gold, mounted on a big female direwolf answering to the name of Howler, she was certainly not something the Ironborn captains wanted for their women.

The rest of the days and nights, she thought with satisfaction her Lord Father and all his bannersmen could go fuck themselves if they had the brains to do so. As the direwolves ran to war, her husband spoke lengthily on tactics and strategy, before giving her problems she had to solve. Asha had believed she knew the basics; she was an Ironborn captain after all, but it was evident what Torrhen considered 'average' and what the Ironborn considered 'gifted' were as far as removed as a shark was from a trout.

Three or four times per day, and when they did not eat, it was time for sparring. There too, she had felt frustrated in the beginning. She was good with an axe and a sword, but Northerners were just...demonic with their weapons, faster than her, and when they struck, they could fell mammoths with their blades. She was getting better, though. Stronger too. And at night, well...Torrhen and she had learned a lot from each other, and not just because they made love the moment they were retiring for the night. Yes, sex with her husband was extremely good and they had been experimenting a lot of new positions which would have made the septons die in a heart attack.

Today was unlike the others, though. The sky had turned a colour between black and green which was certainly not natural, and in the horizon a citadel was visible before noon.

"Moat Cailin," declared Arya as she dismounted Valkia and went to seize some honey biscuits she and her furry companion loved to devour. "Father will be satisfied, we are in time."

"It looks like we aren't the first army to get here."

"White Harbour, Barrowton, the Rills, Oldcastle...there are many hosts and castles which are closest to the Moat than us," commented her husband, petting his tired direwolf. "For this war, it is as much our muster point as it is the Gate of Neck."

"People in the South are whispering the whole place is a ruin, you know."

Cregan scoffed not far from their improvised circle, never leaving his eyes from his book.

"Why would we leave the Moat fall into disrepair? The castle is the ideal place to bleed and destroy crusades from the south, and the foundations were built with a talent few of our builders have the skill to equal."

"The place has changed owners several times in the past, however," added Torrhen with an expression he reserved to serious subjects. "Between the bribery from trade tolls, welcoming Southern spies and the influence of the Neck, the Kings of Winter were forced several times to use harsh measures. The current masters of the Moat are the descendants of one of House Stark's minor branches and were given the title only two hundred years ago."

"Why did they take the name Sinister, in this case? Greenstark or Swampstark was a good name..."

"You will see when we are at the gates of the Moat Cailin..."

And indeed, as the citadel was revealed in its great majesty, it was not hard to see why the Starks of old had decided to take a new name. Moat Cailin walls were shining in a dreadful light, a dark shape of green and black echoing perfectly the putrid swamps to the south. The walls utterly dominated in a sinister fashion the road and the armies waiting for their turn.

Winterfell was absolutely massive and had the housing to welcome the population of the North, but Moat Cailin was impressive in its own way. Dark and illuminated with nefarious lights, the seventy feet-high walls, the troubled waters, the spikes and the gargoyles which could pour oil, acid and flame over invaders told quite clearly how this citadel had broken the Andal Crusades. There were ballista, scorpions and other siege engines which could be discerned if you watched long enough. And in the shadows, Asha could very well guess where the sorcerers and the archers were waiting to strike if any Southern army was stupid enough to attack in force.

"The moment the Targaryens lost their dragons, they couldn't take Moat Cailin anymore..." She murmured.

"The Old Man certainly didn't shed too many tears hearing of the dragonlords fighting their civil war..." the deep grey eyes she loved so much were brimming with good humour. "And we played little part in their downfall. The responsible parties for this disastrous civil war were birthed and fed by Targaryen men and women..."

Arya shook her head with a big smile.

"They weren't a pack! Like when you and Torrhen are rutting when you believe no one else is..."

"By happenstance, has your father chosen husbands and wives for your younger siblings, husband?"

"Well now that you mention it..."

The horrified expressions on Arya and Cregan's visages were pure gold and Asha would remember them for years to come.

* * *

 **Ser Patrek Mallister 4**

"Try something more believable, Marq!"

The Heir of House Piper glared at the Bracken knight who had just interrupted him.

"I am not lying, Martin! Lord Edmure has the messenger with him in his tent, sent by Lord Walder himself!"

"That's ridiculous," declared Karyl Vance. "For a messenger to be here and the information to be true, the fall of Sentinel's Stand should have occurred in a day or two. Yes, I think you misunderstood the words or failed to hear the real content. Fortresses like these need a proper siege to be stormed, and House Sentinel is not incompetent or treacherous. They won't open their gates to the first marauding warband which comes out of the swamps."

"I know what I heard, and I stand by my words," replied peevishly Marq Piper before marching out under jeers and mocking calls.

Patrek watched northwards and the clouds which were the very shade of darkness itself. Truth or not, the sky north of the Twins was lost in the sorcery the heretics sent in vanguard of their armies. The light contrast was deep: the field where the army was camping was enjoying a mild but bearable sunny day, while north of the twin castle of the Twins, it might as well be late evening.

"Do you think he was right?" asked Myles.

"I hope not, but if he is..." Patrek's voice was unable to complete the sentence.

If Sentinel's Stand had truly fallen, the slowness of the Riverlands muster had played a role in the destruction of a Noble House.

They wouldn't be the only guilty parties, of course. By all rights, the entire Frey muster was camping on the eastern side of the Twins. One thousand-plus cavalry, over three thousand infantry and multiple forces like Erenford, Charlton and Vypren had already arrived to answer the commands of the Great Old Weasel.

This forest of tents, siege engines and weapons had nothing to do here. Lord Walder had received orders to reinforce the castles of the Small Wall. The hundreds of knights, heavy infantry, archers, freeriders and sellswords were not going to kill anything if they stood a league east of the Twins, ready to retreat in their ancestral fortress at the first sign of danger!

"We need to cross the Green Fork as fast possible. We will assume the worst and plan our moves like Sentinel's Stand has truly fallen. I go to Edmure, prepare all the cavalry to cross the Bridge and send the skirmishers ahead. We need to know where the enemy is."

"I will give the orders."

"We should have enough men to take whatever fast army crawled out of the Neck, since the Faith and thousands of sellswords and Crownlands forces are one day away. With the Freys, we should have between thirty and thirty-five thousand men?"

"Up to forty thousand, if half of Edmure's host is in position before the enemy arrives..."

"Don't count on it." Patrek grimaced at the remark, but there was no denying it was true. The Riverlands' army was a long column of infantry and cavalry stretching from the Twins to Fairmarket. It was more than thirty thousand men strong as they spoke, but there was no denying that the principal road was a nightmare. Chariots, smells, disputes, camp followers searching their masters and hundreds of other issues no one had tried to regulate before the Crusade. The first autumn rains had made progression even more difficult: for instead of being plagued by dust, wheels, horses, cows and men were forced to march in a muddy terrain. And as thousands and thousands of warriors, smiths and smallfolk used four or five roads, the fields became long snakes of mud and the local farmers' smiles turned to anger.

They had not drawn their swords save to train and train again, but the unpleasantness had already commenced, and to know all of this would have been avoided four moons ago as summer reigned was the cause of much consternation. The Seven only know how bad it was going to get when they arrived in the North proper and snow covered the battlefields...

Obeying the orders of his cousin was anything but simple, sadly. One might have thought that since there were no enemies on their western flank, dark clouds of bad omen were over their heads and the eastern protection of the Small Wall may not exist anymore, the weasels should have been happy to let the army cross their stone bridge as quickly as a man or a horse could.

If you believed that, you had never met a Frey.

"The toll for a foot soldier is one star," announced to an incredulous crow one middle-aged Frey. Patrek couldn't honestly remember his name – there were too many of the weasels to memorise their whole family's names – but he knew the man was going soon to gain a nickname like 'Rapacious Walder' or 'Greedy Walder' before the day was over. There so many 'Walder' it wasn't going to offend these weasels greatly, right?

"This is unacceptable!" roared an anonymous knight in the crowd. "A Most Holy Crusade is beginning, and you want to collect tolls?"

The Frey took some steps back as the anger and the indignation spread, before he remembered he was ten feet away from the gates of the Twins and that several siege engines and archers of his family were on the ramparts ready to stop dead any form of violence.

"Tolls must be collected! We can't field and deliver food if..."

"You aren't giving us food, we have our own supply lines!"

"You are trying to fill your coffers and ruin the Houses of the Riverlands!"

Each accusation was more insulting than the previous one, and the problem as far as Patrek could judge, was that no one thought it was out of character for Walder Frey to do so. The Old Weasel had insulted, vilified and disparaged every Lord from Highgarden to the Eyrie during his incredibly long life, and friends of the Twins were rare on the ground.

"The tolls have been lowered for the Crusade..."

"LIES! LIES!"

"This is the will of my grandfather, Lord Walder Frey..."

"You can take his instructions in your..."

"What price are you going to demand for a knight or a Lord? Ten dragons?"

Greedy Walder obviously hadn't understood there were questions one toll-taker mustn't answer.

"No, the toll for horse-mounted knights of noble birth is ten stags..."

The new shouts and insults which came from the mouths of the commanders gathered in the shadow of the Twins were powerful and not feigned at all.

"We will not pay! The Twins and Walder the Apostate can fight the Crusade on their own!"

The young Mallister knight thought the imprecation had come from the Blackwood ranks, but it could have been a lot of other Houses, as acclamations and cheers echoed to support the motion. It was the moment a dark cloud dimmed the sun's light for a good turn of hourglass...except for the first time, it was no sorcery or heretic's artifice.

It was a cloud of crows and carrion birds, arriving from every direction. Patrek had never seen so many, and where the black birds flew, war left thousands of corpses. The times of the crusading hosts had replaced the summer of peace.

* * *

 **Lord Varys 2**

In the case he was arrested and did not manage to take his own life by poison or dagger, Varys would likely tell his captors everything.

'Everything' would probably include how frustrating he found the secret passages of King's Landing. Undoubtedly, his noble captors would be surprised to hear him lambast the deceased architects of the capital.

Varys didn't see why. Oh, he knew most of the 'secrets', secret passages, secret alcoves, secret exits, and secret weapon caches. It was his duty to know everything after all – a Master of Whisperers who forgot this fact often saw his head exposed on one of the seven gates at the end of a pike before the next fortnight was over. But what people often forgot was that he was a lone eunuch and that Maegor and his successors had made the entrails of their chief city an impenetrable maze.

Having a secret passage in case angry smallfolk suddenly had an urge to brandish pitchforks and torches was a legitimate and wise precaution. Having two was understandable, though you had to wonder if your rule if your rule was maybe getting a bit unpopular. Above four, either you were persuaded the world was against you, or the realm really wanted to piss on your mutilated corpse.

Maegor the Cruel had built over sixty linking the Red Keep to the city's tunnels, and several hundred excavations had been made before the tyrant killed the builders and died, taking most of the secrets in his grave.

Varys was not able to watch over them. Gods and Demons, the fifty children he had assigned to sentinel duties during his first year as the Royal spymaster had not been able to do much. Lords may laugh he had a stake in every orphanage and dirty lair of King's Landing, but Varys really needed them. Establishing spy rings on the surface was taxing in money, lives, favours and time. Doing it underground was not less risky.

Cut the throat of a Goldcloak or a merchant in a street, and his friends would likely find your name before the day was over, slit your throat, rape your wife and sell your children as slaves, no his apologies, they would be solved as indentured servants to work for sixty years in the Free Cities or some Westerosi Lord lacking strong arms for his harvests.

Cut the throat of someone underground, and no one would know where he had disappeared. The tunnels ordered by Maegor were full of old traps and every fortnight or so, bandits, smugglers, pirates, or any interested party found a secret passage. With so many of them, it was unavoidable...and 'secrecy', like many things at King's Landing, had been a very cold corpse well before he accepted the office from the hands of the now-defunct King Aerys the Second.

There had been wars waged in the horrible sewers and the secret tunnels for the last decade, and not a single one of them would ever be written. The maesters believed themselves wise and learned, but a lot of battles were never written. There were some acts the powerful men reigning under the sun were happy to ignore. There were problems only a spider could solve.

"My birds are certain a good third of the heretics of the capital have taken refuge under Rhaenys Hill," he told the sellsword commander who until recently had been taking the gold of Lord Tywin Lannister. Now the black-haired scoundrel was taking his; the Seven Kingdoms in all their splendour. The Essossi eunuch handed the mercenary a basic map of the great five tunnels running under the Dragonpit. "Order twenty of your men to guard the exits and take the rest into the tunnels. You are given a hundred men and two scores of my own agents. Kill everything you meet and try to find parchment and information."

"My men will do the job, spider," the sellsword growled more than he spoke.

"They'd better," replied coldly Varys. "You and your sellswords have been chosen to maintain the peace of the capital while thousands go to the Crusade," it was best not to mention they'd also been chosen because they could be counted to turn their cloaks in a heartbeat when the Blackfyre fleet landed in Blackwater Bay. "Accomplish this mission, and more gold and lands will be yours. Fail, and I assure you no one will mourn your passing."

The sellsword saluted with his fist striking his breastplate, and a large column of hired killers stepped down the wooden stairs leading to one of the largest caverns he had explored under King's Landing. Varys would have preferred using smugglers and bandits more familiar with underground fighting, but a lot of them had disappeared without a trace this last moon and with the Crusade 'recruiting' thousands of young men, replacing the agents he lost was getting more and more difficult. The Master of Whisperers had already demanded more Pentoshi servants and agents to Illyrio than in the last eight years added together.

Varys sighed and turned back to go back to the Red Keep, wearing the dark cloak and the general appearance of a gaoler which made sure no one was going to stop him to engage in a spirited debate or a religious sermon. Highborn and lowborn rarely wanted to deal with gaolers, especially with the gaoler of the Black Cells.

No, he was not going to wait the sellswords for long and unproductive hours. There was too much work to be done. The Master of Whisperers had always very long days nights, and the death of Aerys and the departure of the Royal Armies had created many holes which had to be filled one way or another.

The sun set down in a red corona and Varys used six full candles reading the reports of his agents on the moves of the corrupt Captains at the top of the Goldcloaks before throwing himself on his couch and taking a few hours of rest.

When he opened his eyes again, it was hearing the almost inaudible sounds of knocking against his door. After a brief moment to make himself presentable, he opened and saw one of the street urchins guarding one of Maegor's tunnels several feet below the Iron Throne. A blood-soaked missive was handed to him and the message caused shivers in his neck.

 _ **Forced to retreat. Half of force gone. Fought heretic sorcerers. Bring reinforcements or the tunnels are lost**_.

Varys' next words were a torrent of insults his colleagues of the Small Council would have not approved.

"Now I will have to recruit more sellswords to eradicate these pests..."

* * *

 **Princess Rhaenys Targaryen 2**

"And the Captain of Buzzard Company told me to transport the Lysene silk for three dragons to this abandoned house in Fleabottom. Every two moons, we sold it to a merchant from Oldtown and the good Captain gave me six to eight stag for opening the barracks and keeping my mouth shut. This is all I know! I swear it on the Mother!"

The oath was sincere, Rhaenys was sure of it. Unfortunately, it was also an idiotic vow to say in presence of Visenya. Her sister had spent her morning listening a septon preach his nonsense in front of the entire court. Her tolerance for every aspect of the Faith worship was as such...a bit strained.

Swift and deadly, Visenya drew a dagger from one of the Goldcloaks which had already succumbed and stabbed the leg of the officer they were busy with.

"Your false gods and goddesses are powerless here, Kingslander!" violet sparkles of magic danced around her eyes and her fingers. Their current victim was too busy screaming to understand his mistake, though.

"Visenya, that's enough," the daughter of Elia Martell said, writing the revelation on a next scroll which was going to cause a lot of deaths by next dawn.

"The man is useless, sister," sometimes her sibling almost frightened her. The ugly black robe she had chosen for the assignment was stained with blood and other fluids. Her silver hairs were dishevelled and a predatory expression was on her face.

"Are you sure?" The sheepish face she was given told her quite clearly that no, the youngest Targaryen had not questioned to their usual standards and had once more let her bloodthirst grow uncontrollable.

"My apologies, sister," a purple cloud materialised and heartbeat by heartbeat the Goldcloak stopped screaming and begging for the pain to stop. "Let's speak of your dealings with the smugglers again..."

The interrogation resumed, more calmly. Visenya had now a firm hold on her anger, and the Goldcloak had received so many spells he was extremely loose with his tongue and told them everything. It was extremely impressive, even for a worshipper of the Gods. The Kingslander had been a 'model officer' of the Goldcloaks: not a fortnight had passed in his life without him blackmailing a merchant, bribing one of his superiors, threatening some subordinates for things he participated in and many, many other crimes. By his own admissions, the man had killed forty-six men and raped twenty-eight women.

And the King and the Council had the gall to affirm the Goldcloaks were the only thing protecting the population from utter chaos and heresy in King's Landing.

After this speech, it was extremely easy to conclude the foundations of the Seven Kingdoms were built on lies, blood and violence.

"This is everything I know, I swear..." Both Princesses exchanged a glance and in unity they drew their daggers from the leg and the arm. Visenya's next strike slit his throat, while Rhaenys' mark was the heart.

"For the True Gods of this world, Lord Khorne, Lord Tzeentch, Lord Nurgle and Lady Slaanesh," Visenya whispered as runes of multiple colours lightened on the altar and the stone specifically brought from the Northern peaks drank the soul and the life-energy of the Goldcloak.

"The unbelievers and invaders will be punished, the unfaithful will rot in disgrace, the fate of battle will turn against the cowards and sorcery will rise once more," finished Rhaenys.

This was not the first Goldcloak they killed today. It was not the last. One word of command, and two servants came to take the corpses and bring two sellsword captured in yesterday's battles to their ritual chamber deep behind Maegor's Citadel.

"We underestimated Varys badly," Rhaenys said in a falsely-idle tone as the next prisoner was bound to the altar in blood-soaked chains.

"Yes, the legion of agents, children and hired killers he is paying with his purse has been an unpleasant surprise," agreed her little sister. "I'm not saying he could take the capital alone, even with most of the Crownlands armies and fleets away, but he could certainly cause a lot of destruction and kill the senior officers or convince them to turn their cloaks before we realise what's wrong."

"And with a traitor like this on the Small Council, neither King's Landing nor the Red Keep can mount a skilled defence, may the Lord of War damn his soul of eunuch."

It had been only in the last days the cults and their loyal servants had understood the massive problem caused by Varys. But by now, the problem was too big to solve in one or two murders and a lust ritual. The Heirs of House Blackfyre – the same pretenders most people believed extinct for the last fifty years – were mustering a new army at Pentos, and thanks to their minion the Master of Whisperers, they must have everything from the existence of the tunnels to the sums a Goldcloak Captain would accept to change his allegiance.

A lot of Lord Stark's plans had been wilfully made to send the levies and men-at-arms of the realm in the Riverlands while the eastern coast was exposed to the black dragons, but with Varys implication, these new invaders may take the entire Crownlands and more before they were stopped. Worse, they may capture her, her sister and her mother before they had a chance to flee the capital or propose advantageous conditions for their surrender.

"I think we need to readjust our next actions...and prepare a tragic accident for our bald and fat Master of Whisperers."

"I would love to see the Spider fly from the ramparts of the Red Keep," said thoughtfully the other Princess.

"I think the Priestesses will want something more sordid and believable."

"Too bad we can't involve the eunuch with a scandal of whorehouses..." then Visenya turned to the sellswords which had awaited the end of their discussions with wide eyes. By the sheer stupefaction on their visages, they had recognised them...not that it was hard for there weren't many silver-haired, purple-eyed women inside the walls of King's Landing. "In a turn of hourglass, I will remove this gag and ask you a few questions. If you value your life, will renounce your Southerner Gods and embrace ours. If not, you will scream..."

* * *

 **Jory Cassel 2**

"The Southerners have bred like vermin during these last summers."

Lord Bog Boggs was ugly in green armour, but there was no denying he had a point. The Southerners had always been more numerous than the men from North of the Neck, but the moment the Conqueror and his dragons had united the realm, the numerical disadvantage had grown larger and larger, though certain wars like the Dance had slowed down the process.

"Give me the latest reports, Lady Cerwyn," said Jory as he turned his head towards the Champion of Khorne.

The armoured woman mumbled something under her breath before speaking in a brutal and cold manner.

"The mass of unbelievers and Southrons coming at us is including four different hosts, if you don't count the army of camp followers, whores, children, smugglers and parasites following them."

Lord Fyron Amber chuckled, but his smile disappeared instantly as the Slaaneshi saw the glare the Cerwyn commander sent him.

"The First army, and the strongest, is the one of Lord Edmure Tully. He still has many thousand warriors travelling between Riverrun and the Twins, but over five thousand cavalry are under his command. The scouts I've sent think he will have close to thirty thousand men in four days, and the majority is armoured and enthusiast for a good bloodbath. They are short on halberds, but they have a lot of pikes and swords. They have also three or four thousand crossbowmen and archers."

There was no amusement anymore among the commanders of the Northern vanguards. Before the victory at Sentinel's Stand, their entire force had been of five thousand and three hundred men and women. Yes, they could pierce the aether and bring reinforcements thanks to the Gods, but twenty thousand was more than six times the size of the first host, and they had lost warriors in the last days, whether in battle or for rear guard-garrison duties. And it was just the first part of the Southern Army.

"The Second army is the one of the Freys and their allies," continued Jonelle. "By all rights, they should have been absorbed in the Tully army, but for stupid reasons of tolls and prise, Lord Walder is dragging his feet and chasing the Tully messengers. There's no love lost between Riverrun and the Twins."

"When we win, we will have to raise a toast in memory of the Old Weasel, praise his incompetence and his idiocy," added Robin Flint.

"Yes, yes," said impatiently the Champion of Khorne. "Between them and their allies, they have gathered nearly six thousand men. They must have one thousand and five hundred cavalry, two thousand archers and the rest is light or heavy infantry."

"The third 'army' is the fanatics of the Faith," rasped Boggs. "They are fresh meat the septons have filled the heads with glory and promises they will go to the Seven Heavens after we butchered them."

"I don't think they sold it that way..." remarked Lord Amber.

"But it's the truth," Jonelle Cerwyn spoke as she drew her axe and examined the reddish metal. "The Tullys and the Freys have at least commanders and proper training, though their ranks are full of green horns who have never tasted blood once in their lives. The 'Faithful' are badly equipped, badly led, badly supplied and they have no idea save the sermons what war truly entails. They are the young and the old of the Riverlands, the Vale and the northern Crownlands."

"But they are a lot of them," Jory decided to stop the diatribe there.

"Yes, Black Spear. Septon-Militant Grover of the White Star has between eighteen and twenty-two thousand men with him..." the Lady of the Cerwyn lands grimaced. "My men have problems telling who is a warrior and who is a servant in this army..."

"And the fourth host?"

"Sellsword companies, knights, freeriders, errant swords and lone households which have decided to heed the call for arms of the Crusade instead of waiting their liege lords. They are about three thousand of them and they have a score of commanders to give contrary orders."

Jory Cassel nodded.

"Sixty thousand men then, and more are arriving each day." This was at moments like these Jory was glad the Riverlanders and the rest of the Southrons were weak and decadent. Sixty thousand was close to the vast forces the North had mustered to fight for the Black Crusade and the Wall. They had garrisons and fighters staying at home, of course, but they sure by Khorne couldn't afford to muster a second army of this size...not when winter was mere moons away. The Ironborn added twenty or thirty thousand on their side, but it wouldn't change anything in the end. The South was far more populous, and their 'War of Faith', their 'White Crusade', could bury the North under tens of thousands levies and fanatic imbeciles.

How sad for them they weren't going to get the opportunity to conquer.

"Let's harass them a bit, Lord Stark is coming and I want these untrained youngsters to swallow the bait when we present it..."

"Their corpses," finished Jonelle Cerwyn, "are going to feed the crows for uncountable days..."

* * *

 **Author's note** : Release the kraken and let the Black Crusade begin! The crows are getting hungry, and next chapter the forces of the North and the Riverlands are going to be fighting to the death the first great battles, because the Three Sisters and Sentinel's Stand were just the beginning.

More armies are mustered, more fanatics are ready to die for their Gods, and the laughter of the demons is getting louder and louder...

Summer is now truly over and autumn promises to be a blood-soaked one.

If you want to support this story further: ww w. p a treon Antony444

I will try to update the Weaver Option next, though it's entirely possible given how far we are in the month the next chapter will be a Harry Potter AU.


	9. Change the Plan

**Chapter 9**

 **Change the Plan**

 **Merrett Frey**

The bottle of wine was better than water...barely. Merrett had the urge twice to vomit it more than once over the parapet of the Water Tower.

"Father Above, where did you find this poor excuse for a drink, Benfrey?" He managed to argue once he had managed to swallow his first cup. "I think even the heretics can't make wine that bad..."

His younger half-brother shrugged.

"One merchant of the Crownlands wanted to empty his last stocks before the incoming soldiers took everything for one or two copper coins."

"He was wise," Merrett gave a dark look to the bottle. "The levies of the Tullys would have broken the bottle on his head."

"Or they would have forced him to drink his own bottles until he didn't remember his own name."

Merrett grunted and went to move away his cup before he was tempted to drink again of this ill-tasting liquid. Wine usually helped with his headaches, but this Crown wine was so bad that not only it was not helping soothe his thirst, it was making his suffering worse.

Mother and Crone, he was almost tempted to descend the two hundred-plus stairs and go straight to the cellars to find something more suitable for his mouth. The problem was that while it might be possible there was a good bottle of Dornish Red waiting for him there, the opposite was very likely. With this senseless war prattled by the septons every morning, afternoon and evening, the wine was flowing everywhere and the Twins had welcomed many prestigious noble visitors this last fortnight. And more were on their way. So far most of the forces mustered on the eastern bank were Riverlanders, Faithful and Crownlanders. The Stormlanders, Valemen, Westerners and the others had yet to arrive...and his father was going to make another of his comments if he emptied the bottles kept for the King and any Lord Paramount who wasn't a Tully.

And by the Warrior, descending these stairs was long and blood tiring. No, the two bottles of the Lolliston vineyards would have to do for this afternoon. Their banners had barrel on them, right? Their fields were certainly not the shiny Arbor, but Merrett hoped they could distinguish a grape from an apple.

"These dark clouds worry me, Merrett," Benfrey had not stopped drinking the first bottle and his eyes were beginning to lose their alertness. "We were born in summer, I never saw a sky so...dark and evil, I guess."

It was lucky for him Merrett had no wish to take advantage of these fears. Admitting such a thing to Black Walder, Hosteen, Lothar or another of their half-siblings would have resulted in plenty of mockeries and damaging whispers throughout the Twins.

"Bah, these are just clouds, Ben." Merrett moved one of his hands in a move imitating the one he used to swat flies aside. "The Northern heretics must be burning some sort of darkness-weed far in the wastes, and they are using it in a vain attempt to scare us. It's a clever thing...but it's just a trick."

"We can't make that sort of tricks, Merrett..." He abandoned his effort to open the Lolliston bottle for the moment as he saw Benfrey was not convinced.

"Listen Ben, the heretics can paint the sky black and the Green Fork yellow if they want, it won't save them in the end."

Merrett pointed a finger in the direction of the north-east, where Sentinel's Stand had once defended the Riverlands from the raiders, monsters and marauders. "They have breached the defences of House Sentinel by treachery and their demonic-tainted sorcery, but they have already lost the effect of surprise and the numbers."

Black Walder was not someone he enjoyed the company of, but the man knew how to fight and many Riverlands captains were listening to his words, so Merrett supposed there was some truth in what he said.

"Even with treachery, the Northerners have paid in blood to take the Small Wall. They can't have more than a couple of thousand riders and infantry moving south. We on the other hand, have over fifty thousand on the eastern bank and our rear is protected by the Twins and thousands more men marching northwards as we speak."

"It's not the North's entire army."

"No," he agreed, "but their damned army isn't that large to begin with. Their tainted lands are so frozen and corrupt they can't field more than thirty thousand swords and half of them will be nothing more than bandits, marauders and raiders. Light infantry and light cavalry, no match for our knights in plate armour and the heavy pikes. Thirty thousand, Ben, and that would be if they're ready to leave all their coastlines, all their fortresses undefended."

By the Warrior, these explanations were making him thirsty. Merrett ceded to the temptation and poured himself half a cup of Lolliston red. He drank it quickly in three heartbeats.

"I don't care if the Northerners pretend their Lords are all ten feet-tall giants. Walder and Stevron are right: we outnumber the heretics more than two-to-one...and no Lords of the Reach and the West have yet joined us. Warrior and Smith, even if by some trickery the Starks and their band of traitors were somehow managing to transport thirty thousand starving smallfolk tonight, Stevron has six thousand with him, and the Tullys have thirty thousand. The Faith has twenty thousand. We must have...something like seven or eight thousand horse, heavy and light."

"So there's no way we can lose?" Benfrey was looking more confident unless it was the last two cups which were providing warmth and happiness.

"None," he answered, pouring himself another cup as the headaches returned and his old wounds hurt. "The young Tully is not his father but even I can win a battle with a huge army like that! We have so many men we can simply afford to trade ten of ours for one of them and still win in the end.

Better, the heretics can't get around our forces. There are armies mustering at the Trident, and we have Seagard and of course the Twins to block their raiders. If they try to assault our walls, our archers will shoot them until they look like hedgehogs and then the River forces will charge in their rear...how did your brother call them...food for the crows?"

Merrett chuckled, imagining the livid face of a Northern Lord begging for mercy as he was dragged to their dungeons.

"The heretics made their worst mistake coming southwards," the ninth son of Lord Walder Frey said. "Now our armies are going to send them to the cold graves where they belong."

The problem was that he wasn't going to be among them. The start of the war had surprised everyone at the Twins, and there was no time to once more train in the courtyards and wait a few moons before he had lost a few stones, enough to wear his old armour. There would be no glory for him...none of the Northern lands the King and the Lords had promised to the Crusaders would ever go to someone like him. Merrett was not a knight, and the chance to gain the 'Ser' in front of his first name had once more slipped between his fingers.

"Look at all these cows and livestock passing on our bridge," there was indeed a sizeable mass of four-legged animals crossing the Green Fork on the great bridge of House Frey. "This must be the third herd today."

"The armies need to eat," Merrett shrugged. "Father is going to be happy for all the tolls paid this fortnight."

The knights and men-at-arms had paid less than what it had been demanded of them, but they had paid nonetheless.

"I think I preferred when the foot and the horse were marching below. Now, that was impressive."

"Yes, yes," Merrett signalled a servant to bring him another bottle. "But most of them are already on the eastern bank and most of the other armies won't use our bridge."

The armies of the Crownlands, Reach, Stormlands, Vale and Dorne had no reason to travel on the western bank of the Green Fork, not unless they didn't know how to read a map.

"What is that?" one of the crossbowmen stationed near them exclaimed, making him almost drop his cup of wine. Merrett looked at the sky before giving the man an unimpressed stare.

"This is just a small cloud..."

Really, with the northern horizon darkened by them, there was really no reason to be afraid.

"It advances quickly and quite low..." another archer remarked.

"And the wind comes from the west, not the north today!"

Merrett abandoned his cup to reprimand the men he was commanded to keep an eye on.

"And what do you think it is?" He asked the crossbowman as the cloud was less than a couple of leagues away from the Water Tower.

"This is not a cloud! These are fever flies of the Neck!"

"Ridiculous," he mocked the lowborn man. "Fever flies are rare in autumn, and they die quickly if they leave their swamps. Now return to your..."

"Light as many fires as you can!" barked a Captain on the rampart just below them. "These things don't like the warmth and the smoke!"

"Protect the bridge!

"The animals on the bridge must cross faster! Those on the western bank will wait!"

"Archers and Crossbowmen in position! Swordsmen and the other warriors, help our men prepare the scorpions and the burning oil..."

Merrett tried to say something, anything, but his words were lost in the tumult. He ran down the stairs and was nearly killed as score of soldiers arrived from every direction and like the lowborn scum they were, didn't open ranks to let him pass.

"Damn it, where is my bottle now?" The ninth son of Lord Walder Frey roared, his bad mood increasing as the pain in his head returned five times stronger and everything around him was steel, armours and loud.

"Here, my Lord..." The bottle appeared like a miracle of the Seven. Merrett took it from the hands of the old servant like the treasure it was. He raised it to his lips. He did not complete the gesture.

A terrible pain burst in his chest, and Merrett let the bottle escape his hands. What was that? He had not...

His eyes lowered and he saw the hilt of a knife emerging from his belly. It was an ugly and yet exquisite thing, the material used to craft it had been bone and there was a small gemstone embedded on it...

"What? Why?"

"Don't you remember, _my Lord_?" the old man he had assumed was a servant hissed as the smallfolk whispered in his ear and held his left arm in an impossibly tight grip. "You raped my daughter five years ago and when I came to demand justice, I received fifty lashes of the whip."

Pain. There was so much pain, as the knife struck a second time. It was...he didn't remember.

"Of course you don't remember. You are just another wastrel, one of these Frey scurrying in the Riverlands and ruining the lives of everyone because you can. But it is over, Merrett Frey. Oh yes, this is over."

Step after step the man dragged him away. Why was no one intervening? He was the son of Lord Walder Frey! He was highborn! He was...he was...the bigger drinker of the Twins! This man was an enemy!

"Your death will bring me joy...and your corpse will be an excellent host for the fever flies."

Merrett saw the green lights. His head hurt. His belly hurt. He saw things growling and coming out of the shadows.

Merrett Frey, failed knight and lover of wine, screamed.

* * *

 **Lothar Frey**

Lothar had expected an attack from the heretics on the Twins, now that the Small Wall was in their hands. It was simple logic, and there was no need to be a grand captain of war to understand it. Some of his half-brothers believed the war was going to be decided in a glorious cavalry charge where the favour of the Seven Heavens made the swords of the Warrior's True Champions.

Lothar disagreed.

Oh, undoubtedly there were going to be massive battles, though he was a bit ill-at-ease at the sudden decision to invade the North at this very moment of the year. Everyone knew that the further you went north, the coldest the climate was. If there had been a time to invade the lands of the heretics, it was ten years ago, when summer would have reigned for long moons and the blizzards stayed a rarity. It was not when the first autumn rains commenced, to be sure.

But this war was not going to be decided in the end by the great clash of mighty armies. It was going to be decided by the equipment, supplies and everything a host of more than a hundred men needed to continue a long campaign. Did his half-brothers realise that? Of course they didn't! And yet it didn't change the reality of things. An army, even one of modest size, needed an unbelievable quantity of food per day nearby if its commander didn't want it to starve. As such for every score of soldiers present on the field, you needed butchers, servants, and bakers among hundreds of smallfolk. An army needed an abundant supply of clean water. In part to clean the clothes and ensure the soldiers washed at least once per moon, but essentially because a man-at-arm without a jug of water per morning was going to die of thirst before he even met the enemy.

This was just the basic supplies. There was also the war equipment to be concerned about. Unlike the Faith who had conscripted its most zealous partisans in an undisciplined tide of fanaticism, Lothar personally didn't place much faith in the miracles. This meant giving each humble warrior a sword, a shield, some leather protections, and a helmet. It helped making sure the man would last at least a turn of hourglass against the heretics.

The supplies had to be renewed every day, because food didn't magically appear in front of your tent. Swords, helmets, chainmail and arrows had to be replaced before they broke in training or in battle, and for this you needed many, many good smiths.

The Lords hadn't realised for now how disastrous the fall of Sentinel's Stand really was. Without this fortress, the armies had to be supported from further south, and this meant Seagard and the Twins. Lothar had hired six of his half-sisters to count the numbers for him and one in five servants of the Twins were now helping him transform the twin castles of House Frey into a well-fortified supply depot no enemy could raid. It was...complicated, essentially because a year ago, no one in a circle of ten leagues had imagined there was going to be a Crusade. No effort had been made by the Crown to help House Frey as usual, and the organisation of the Crusade in general was disorderly, miserable and each army marching northwards was using its own methods. If they were all useless idiots like the ones Edmure Tully kept around, they were in big trouble.

As a result, Lothar was well-aware how much the Crusade depended on the supplies crossing the great bridge daily and the warehouses owned by House Frey on both sides of the Green Fork. And how much it would hurt to lose said gain, meat, fish and vegetables before a single battle was fought. He had made several preparations: the archers and crossbowmen Stevron had taken with him in the muster had all been replaced, the defences were all rebuilt as fast as possible, the scorpions and the ballista had been repaired and overall he had over two thousand swords, bows and spears to protect the Twins from anything heretical and dangerous.

Unfortunately, flies had...not been something he had thought of enemies. A demon or a man, you killed it with a sword, an axe or a warhammer. But all of these cutting blades were not that useful against a swarm of little creatures.

"Fire! We need fire to kill these things! Fire and smoke!"

He had been walking on the bridge inspecting some supplies from Pinkmaiden when the alert was sounded, and he had tried to organise the answer the moment the cloud was seen.

It was not good.

Many of his siblings present in the keep on both sides of the river had been left there because they couldn't be trusted to wield correctly a spear or a sword on the battlefield, and they were adding to the confusion, not helping.

And to make things worse, the swarm was fast. It had arrived with no favourable wind, but it was fast. Some sorcery was most likely at work, but what struck Lothar in the first moments before it struck was the horrid, awful smell.

"Sweet Maiden, we are going to need the perfume of my sisters for the entire fortress after this..."

Lothar went against the stone to vomit. It saved his life, for the steel which had been aimed for his throat came terribly close to end his life. Thank the Seven, his sworn swords were swift with their swords and knew the pay was not likely to continue if he was dead.

"For the Grandfather! For the Lord of Life and Death!" The man in servant clothes had the crazy grin of a demented fool, and these were his last words as an axe removed his head.

The flies descended over the towers and the odours became worse. Lothar had just the time to put his helmet on and then it was swatting insects aside with steel and fire.

Seconds later, the pain he felt in his legs reminded him he was no warrior and that his bad leg had not healed itself while he was forgetting his weakness. Only a monumental effort and a weird move of his sword prevented him from falling. A few heartbeats later, four of his sworn swords formed a circle and then nothing heretical broke through.

Unfortunately, the twelfth son of Lord Walder Frey realised part of their success lied in the point these disgusting flies were not interested at all in him or the soldiers nearby. No, the majority of the swarm had attacked the livestock and the smallfolk crossing the bridge.

The noises made by the dying beasts were particularly horrible and as the battle continued, Lothar saw that flies were coming out of the cows, chickens and sheep's corpses, their carcasses bleeding green pus and the odour was getting more and more unbearable.

"Captain!" He barked. "Burn the corpses! Burn everything corrupted! We can't afford to let this swarm double its strength!"

Fortunately, there were plenty of fire arrows and torches ready by then, and the fleas and the other insects sent by the Northern sorcerers weren't that bad.

"Beware, my Lord!" One of his protectors cut down another false-servant. By the Seven Hells, how many of these traitors were they hidden in their midst. When this damned battle was over, there were going to be changes, Lothar was ready to swear it on a holy book. It was bad enough to know the enemy you faced was damned beyond all redemption, but this...this treachery...waiting for the dagger inside their ranks to strike...

After a good turn of hourglass, the attack collapsed and the last flies began to dissolve into a smelly and nasty green good...at the light of the burning corpses, the fight ended as brutally as it had begun.

Lothar gritted his teeth watching over the devastation. The bridge was intact, not that he thought it had been in real danger when most of the enemy had been disease-infected vermin. Several Frey soldiers had been killed, albeit the incompetent ones: it was difficult to say with the fires, but it looked like most of the dead had rushed in battle without their helmets and armours.

The real problem was the livestock and the smallfolk. Many had to be killed on the spot, a grim task when it came to animals and even more morale-breaking one when it was humans who needed to be put down.

"My Lord?"

"Do it, Captain. Those with minor bites and wounds are to be immediately transported to the dungeons in quarantine. We will bring septons and those 'Light servants' with...peculiar abilities to excise the taint. For those who are clearly contaminated, all we can do is ending their suffering before evil claims their souls."

"My Lord, a lot of these smallfolk aren't sworn to our House...I think I saw several merchants sworn to the Tullys..."

Yes, their Riverrun liege was not going to like it...Lothar thought about this for a heartbeat before deciding getting rid of a potential epidemic before it even began was more important than making Edmure Tully like him...

"My orders stand Captain. We can't afford fever, plague and whatever ugly surprises the sorcerers have prepared in the Neck to spread in the Riverlands."

By order of the Iron Throne, hundreds of thousands men were marching northwards. If a sorcery-fuelled plague spread in one of the most populated kingdoms of Westeros, it was going to be something worthy of a nightmare and the Crusade would probably end before it had even begun.

It took a long time for order to be restored. More than he felt comfortable explaining to his father, really. Messengers came back as the sun slowly set over the twins. They told him the swarm had concentrated its strength against the bridge and caused little damage elsewhere.

It was when he was beginning to prepare his report to his father the last messenger came bearing a first list of the dead and the wounded in quarantine...along with more ill news.

"Your brothers Merrett and Benfrey were murdered, my Lord. We didn't find Ser Merrett until the battle was over...I fear his assassin escaped..."

Lothar had the urge to say this was not bad news at all, but affirming it in public in front of scores of men and women he was far from convinced they were loyal to him was a mistake he had learned not to do at a young age.

"How awful," he answered with a fake mourning expression. "Captain, begin the search for my brothers' assassins immediately. We can't allow assassins and spies to continue walking and murdering people in our halls and towers!"

"At once, my Lord!"

Something disturbed him, however. But he didn't know exactly what. It was only at he was ten feet away from the great solar of his father he acknowledged the issue. The attack on the bridge had been brutally efficient and the heretics had lost nothing of value. A few assassins and a lot of flies were gone, but Lothar was sure this was nothing they could replace in a fortnight. By all rights, this attack had been ruthlessly and mercilessly executed.

Why then had the enemy commander chosen to eliminate two of his half-brothers...especially those two. Merrett and Benfrey were commanding the Water Tower because they couldn't be trusted to command anything else...

Lothar Frey was forced to confront an unpleasant question.

"Was this attack a real attempt to test our defences, or a feint to distract us from discovering the real threat?"

* * *

 **Ser Kevan Lannister**

Kevan walked silently on the waterfront which had been once the pride and the heart of Lannisport. He remembered a year ago when he had come here to talk to the guildsmen and captains of the slow merchant ships ponderously sailing across the Sunset Sea. He remembered the stalls full of fishes and their sea bounties. He remembered the loud shouts and the thousands of conversations as thousands of souls ran, walked, shove those who barred their way aside or transported large crate of goods on the waiting carracks.

Three days after the attack of Lannisport, it was difficult to remember this tapestry of prosperity and wealth had ever existed. In spite of the powerful western wind, there still was a heavy smell of smoke and fire. That was what happened when Iron reavers went ashore. These pirates had always the same methods: pillage, then burn.

"The priority is to rebuild the defences," Kevan said with a voice which he hoped didn't reveal his exhaustion. The company-strong group of Lannister cousins and cadet branches he had spoken nodded in reply with compliant smiles and devoted expressions.

They were useless, truth to be told. The battle they had just fought was proof of that. If they had not been eight thousand men in the eastern hills training for the Crusade, the damage could have been far worse than it currently was.

As he observed the walls and what had been once a neat and well-organised harbour, Kevan acknowledged the devastation was bad enough. The fires had been extinguished, but the vision of the harbour was one of utter disaster. Dozens of ships had only their prows or their sterns emerging from the debris-filled water as they lied on the bottom of the bay. Rare were the hulls which looked like there were not about to sink before the sun set over this humiliation. It was going to take a long time to get rid of these wrecks. The harbour of Lannisport had been transformed into a hall of slaughter. Any other day, it would be the crows reigning on the battlefield's dead, but in the last three days, it was the sharks which had feasted on human flesh. For every man, woman or child washing ashore dead, there were three times that number the fishes ate in the depths.

"I am going to send the smiths and the artisans to rebuild the Western Gate and the Sun Gate," Kevan added, naming the two enormous doors the Ironborn had no difficulties destroying, since they hadn't been closed in the first place. "The garrison is going to be tripled and we are going to build six new watchtowers."

"Ser Kevan...we are...err...lacking in officers and good warriors. Will you release the commanders you have arrested?"

Kevan stared at the Lantell merchant until the man lowered his eyes.

"No," the brother of the Lord of Casterly Rock replied. "These men are going to be hanged before the fortnight is over. Smallfolk can be cowards. Without a weapon and some protection, it is not a crime to be scared by thousands of Ironborn charging out of nowhere in the middle of the night. However, these officers of the City's Watch are paid with our gold to man the ramparts, close the gates and fight when an enemy is trying to raid our shores. We pay them to be brave. We do not pay them to flee with their gold in the opposite direction the moment they learn of the attack."

"But..."

"Cowardice and incompetence will not be tolerated. Am I clear?" Kevan raised sufficiently his voice to make his displeasure evident.

"Yes, my Lord," they replied with force bowing and soft murmurs.

He had not finished explaining the displeasure Tywin had demanded to express.

"This battle will force us to change our strategy and keep a large garrison inside Lannisport." In pure loss, he was sure, since it was unlikely even the Ironborn were stupid enough to attack a target they had already ravaged. "These are over six thousand men which will not join the Crusade. In compensation, a new tax will be levied on the guilds and most prestigious Houses starting next moon."

"My Lord, this will ruin us!" The exclamation had come from a Lannister of Lannisport, whose name Kevan had not bothered learning the name.

"Given that your cousin was arrested with three bags of gold coins at the Wind Gate, you need to be more careful with your words..." the knight of the Westerlands warned this useless blonde-haired merchant. "Daven, your report."

Stafford's son took two step forwards, his gruff appearance in chainmail, leonine helm and fox-fur cloak intimidating further the assembled highborn.

"The harbour and the fleet are a total loss, Ser Kevan," Daven announced. "Half of our galleys' crew were killed outright, and one in three of the rest are prisoners of the Ironborn now. And those who managed to avoid these two fates jumped off ship, swam and fled as fast they could before the battle was over..."

Daven made the usual sign on his throat to tell the sentence which was given to these deserters once the horse of House Lannister found them.

"The problem is the wood," Stafford's son grumbled. "The Ironborn, damn their souls to the Seven Hells, have raided all of our stores outside the walls and what they couldn't take in the battle in the streets, they tried to burn it. We will not only need to train new sailors and build an entire new fleet...we will need to purchase all the supplies for it. Ropes, turpentine, anchors, and sails...everything they could grab and transport to their longships, these pirates took it...and what they didn't take, they set it on fire or they threw it at the bottom of the harbour. I don't see how we can rebuild something from this...we will have to rebuild the harbour entirely and then the fleet."

The gaze Daven Lannister sent the merchants and the important nobles of Lannisport was not friendly at all.

"My Lord!" the man who had called him had no Lannister traits, his hair were deep black and his eyes an ugly brown. He had around his neck the golden necklaces with several jewels the Guild Masters enjoyed wearing for momentous events. "I fear building a new fleet is going to be impossible for years..."

"Explain," Kevan said, silently admiring the courage of the man as his neighbours quickly chose to distance themselves from him.

"It's the timber, my Lord," the man affirmed while his fists tightened. "Lord Tywin, in his great foresight, knows the West is not blessed with many forests...and the timber we take from it is of low quality when we decide to use it. Nine out of ten wood planks we prepare for shipbuilding are bought in Oldtown, the Arbor or...from other sources and blessed by the septons."

Kevan Lannister almost smirked at the very polite way his interlocutor had just admitted they were buying wood from the North.

"Transporting all this wood by land is ruinous and takes too long, my Lord. The timber has to come by ship...and these last moons, the price our contacts in the Reach and the other kingdoms demanded for their ship supplies was increasing massively. Several of our sources are now...unavoidable, due to the Crusade, and with the Ironborn reaving everywhere, merchant ships are unlikely to risk themselves northwards without the protection of the Redwyne fleet. We had reserves for a couple of years at Lannisport, my Lord, but we never thought we would have to rebuild the fleet and the harbour at the same time while our supplies were destroyed or stolen. I don't see a way we can rebuild the fleet to its previous strength in less than five years, and this is assuming our allies defeat the Ironborn at sea. I am sorry, my Lord, but this is the truth."

"Five years, you say?"

"Five years, my Lord...assuming we manage to remove all the debris and the wrecks before the first snowfall...the winter does not last more than a couple of years...and the Ironborn don't return."

Kevan shuddered in his head. That was a lot of conditions...and the worst part was that they were reasonable. Tywin was not going to be happy at all...thank the Gods the reinforcements had managed to push back the Ironborn before they were entrenched inside Lannisport.

One thing was sure, alas. The initial plan of invading the North by its western coast was dead and it was best to forget it entirely. Neither he nor any Lannister captain knew what the Northerners had proposed to the Ironborn for an alliance, but surely it couldn't be a coincidence Balon Greyjoy had chosen this time to rebel. And the forces in presence suddenly were not as outbalanced as they had been three days ago. It wasn't the North against the other kingdoms of Westeros; it was two kingdoms against the other seven...and both happened to erase the other's weaknesses. This Crusade had already a feeling of precipitation and hot-headed charge before, now it had all the signs of unbridled recklessness.

"Now let's speak of all the accusations of sorcery your men have on their lips when they explain why they were sleeping on duty..."

* * *

 **Ser Patrek Mallister**

"They sent us on a senseless patrol..." Patrek was pretty sure the comment had come from the old knight carrying the Ryger banner.

Maybe the grey-bearded warrior should not have voiced it so loudly, though. Ser Tristan Ryger was of good company when Edmure and their friends were around, but he took his duties and Edmure's commands very seriously.

"Be quiet, Rand! Lord Edmure told us to find these heretic raiders, and we will find them!"

"With all due respect, Ser," a knight of Seagard under Patrek intervened, "I fear that Rand is right. We were commanded to go east and make sure the enemy wasn't using the goat trails between the Vale and the Riverlands to move its forces southwards. We obeyed the command. But unless the heretics have been transformed into birds by their demonic masters, I don't see how they could have escaped all our patrols."

"Any large group of men leaves traces, Ser," a knight from the Trident with a sort of spearfish-like banner affirmed, his russet beard giving him a savage air which had to be very appreciated by the Ladies. "One man on foot could have hidden himself from our cavalry patrols in a hole or a grove somewhere. For two, the rebels must be good smugglers and know the region like their purse. For three or more, we would have found the cold embers of their fires, their foot traces and the locations of their camps. It rained five days ago and a lot of these muddy trails are easy to observe. Nothing but a few wild animals took this path. I'm ready to bet one stag on it."

"You just did," retorted Tristan, and they pushed their horses forwards in the hills announcing the Mountains of the Moon in the distance.

But as the sun rose, shone and finally descended, the words of the age knights proved true. There were no Northern raiders hiding in a cove with blood in their eyes waiting for them. There was not much of everything, truth to be sold. Rand announced a stag had been drinking in the next river, and nearly drew his sword in anger when one of the southern hedge knights challenged him, proclaiming high and loud it was a big fox.

The landscape was not unpleasant to watch, not with the autumn weather far more tolerable than the hellishly hot summer heat, but there were no humans in sight. There were merely a couple of leagues away from the steep slopes of the first mountains, at the very edge of the Ryger lands, and there were few villages in this region. Obviously a determined hundred or so smallfolk could build a village in summer and cultivate some fields. But when winter came here, harvesting was not possible anymore, and isolated from everything and a prime target for the clansmen of the Mountains of the Moon, the audacious peasants would not see another spring.

But as the brown leaves covered the paths they used in a brown-red blanket, the tempers rose among the group. Many of the young knights like him had volunteered to be part of these patrols because for now, there was no great army coming southwards to challenge them and the idea of fighting raiders while outnumbering the heretics twenty-to-one was not a risky proposition. But as the sky grew darker and the probable future was another autumn rain, the smiles disappeared and the exchanges were more shouted than spoken.

"I'm telling you we must return and tell..."

"There should be some old ruins not far from this hill, Ser. A dragon killed the knights during the Dance, but it could give us some shelter from the storm. I really don't like these clouds..."

Patrek knew from experience that at Seagard, the bad weather could arrive before you had the time to say your House's words, and it seemed that so close to the mountains, it was true too. By the time they saw decrepit burned walls, there was so little light it looked like it was a moment before dusk. The sun had abandoned them, and already the cold wind was bringing the hints of the autumn rains.

"Well, if it isn't a friendly sight," a Willow Wood knight japed as they lighted the torches. Forced laughter answered him. In this darkness, it was true the sight presented by the ruin was as sinister and unwelcoming as it was possible. But then, it was a ruin, and in the darkness there was no one to make it more pleasant to the eye.

"Come on, best we find some good shelter before the rain drenches us...I don't think the horses will thank...argh!" One of the men from the Trident had not looked where he was walking, and the large root which had waited there for decades sent him sprawling to the ground.

"Pat, if you aren't careful, we will have to tell your poor mother you died murdered by a tree..." Tristan emerged from the shadows with two of his men as laughter and japes about Pat's clumsiness spread.

The laughter was suddenly stopped by the first drops of water and everyone hurrying to mount tents and provide some shelter for the horses. They didn't make it. Before one had the time to count ten, it was like the Seven Heavens poured a torrent of water of their heads.

It was a miserable night. The fires didn't last long, they were unable to warm their hands or any part of their bodies and the rain continued long past the meagre dinner they shared together. And of course, they didn't see anything in this awful weather. The heretics, unlike them, had decided to stay away –wisely - from this ruin.

* * *

 **Ser Edmure Tully**

"The heretics aren't coming, lord," Edmure hid his grimace behind a cup of Gold Arbor. Lord Keath had babbled for days the Northerners weren't going to rush south in front of the Twins to offer battle, but Edmure and most of the other Lords of the Rivers and the Trident had disagreed.

Attacking fast was the intelligent thing to do for the Starks and their allies, obviously. They were going to be horribly outnumbered – according to his best scouts, they couldn't have more than five thousand mutants and traitors against his sixty thousand men – but when his southern reinforcements arrived, the Crownlands and the Vale alone would add more than seventy thousand men, twice the size of the greatest muster the Starks could gather on short notice.

Unfortunately, whoever was in command in the ruins of Sentinel's Stand wasn't smart at all. The heretical grand captain had let pass his chance, and now not only the defences of the Twins and all the other fortresses on both banks had been strengthened, the other armies of the Iron Throne were less than a fortnight away.

"No, they aren't," it had to be said, especially as Lord Keath had been courteous enough not to say 'I told you so'. "And none of our patrols have seen any raiders or scout bands try to flank us by the east. They are...well, as far as we able to see, they are happy to pillage the Sentinel lands and repair whatever damage they did to Sentinel's Stand."

"They are corrupting this blessed citadel with their demonic sorcery..." grumbled the septon the Faithful Crusaders had sent as a representative for this council of war. "We can't let them continue this desecration any longer!"

"I agree with the Septon-Crusader, my lord," Lord Jonos Bracken growled. "We don't know where the main Northern army is, but it's not south of the Neck. We have lost many scouts in our reconnaissance in force, but our courageous men saw no more troops coming from the Neck. All they have is seven or eight thousand warriors and monsters to fight us with. And none of our rangers saw anything like scorpions, catapults or trebuchets. If they have siege engines, the rock-launchers are not big."

"Let's not forget their sorcerers, my lords," Lord Blanetree warned them with his thin voice and his dark green eyes never fixing on anyone for long. "They may not have a large siege train, but one powerful Riverlands fortress fell in mere days..."

"It was treachery which caused the fall of Sentinel's Stand! That and House Frey abandoning them was their doom!"

"How dare you..." one of the weasel-faced Freys seethed. "You will duel me for this insult, Vance!"

Edmure opened his mouth, but it was too late. The bickering was already out of control and people were screaming everywhere he posed his eyes. Thank the Father Above, no one was drawing the splendid swords and daggers at the moment...the war council being held under the rainbow banner at least stopped bloodshed from starting. No one wanted to explain to the High Septon why one of the symbols of the Seven-Who-Are-One was discarded like a mere inconvenience.

It took a long time to restore something looking like order, and only with the arrival of a new hundred cups and the wine bottles did calm and silence made a timid return.

"We are in agreement the heretics won't try to engage us in a battle on the Kingsroad or before the Twins. And they didn't try to sneak their raiders in the Ryger and Terrick lands. Therefore, our only possible answer is to go at them." Edmure tried to impose the same tone his father used in the Great Hall of Riverrun. "We need to take the fight to them and reconquer Sentinel's Stand in the name of King Rhaegar and the Seven."

There was a moment of silence and Lord Blanetree cleared his throat.

"An admirable feeling my Lord, but why not wait the first Vale horses and the vanguard of the Crown troops? Our superiority then will be utterly impossible to counter..."

"And abandon the glory to the other armies and their knights?" Jonos Bracken asked incredulously. "By the Warrior, Blanetree, if I didn't know you better, I would think you were a coward!"

As more shouts and whispers followed to support this, House Blanetree and House Shawney's Lords didn't speak one more word.

"Yes, my Lord, it will be an easy campaign...we will have five trebuchets and three catapults to break the walls if the heretics refuse to give us battle..."

"We have thousands of chariots to give us all the supplies we need..."

"This is decided then, my children," the septon said while lighting seven candles in a fluid move. "We march against the heretics! Death to the apostates! Death to the First Men and their demonic masters!"

"Death to the heretics! We will purge them from Westeros!"

"Death to the Starks!"

Edmure too raised in cup. Yes, it was time for House Tully to take revenge after they had been forced to sacrifice a daughter to these demon-worshippers which respected nothing and no one.

"We will take back our lands...and the North will learn there are no True Gods but the Seven-Who-Are-One!"

"THE SEVEN WILL IT!"

"THE SEVEN WILL IT!"

* * *

 **Author's note** : The plans have changed. The first skirmishes are over. The great hosts are now moving for the first great clash of blades and slaughter. The Riverlands are marching northwards to meet the Northerners. It is going to be interesting...

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	10. Tears and Slaughter

**Chapter 10**

 **Tears and Slaughter**

 **Lord Jonos Bracken 1**

The word gritted between the brown teeth of his sworn sword had the merit to sum-up accurately the problem.

Jonos Bracken, Lord of Stone Hedge and commander of the Riverlands vanguard, feigned not to have heard it. The words used by men of low birth, accurate or not, were not exactly to be spoken in presence of Ladies and persons of high birth.

Still, he could not say his men had not a good point. As a matter of fact, they had several good ones...or bad, depending on the point of view.

"All right, I see the heretics have been built plenty of defences while we waited around the Twins. But with their damn fumes and the dark clouds, I can't see very well all they've prepared to stop us. Tell me what I can't see from there."

"Yes, Lord," one of his archers half-grunted, a man who by all accounts wore a sort of green-brown long cloak and was certainly a step or two above the outlaws hunting deer and boars in the forests east of the Green Fork. "Three sets of wood pikes. One water pit after the first. Can't take the horses that way, no Lord. Fumes and some nasty things out there. Rat-beasts quick and screaming..."

Jonos sighed and sent two of his Captains with the scout to make a proper map. The scout was certainly good to scurry around and escape enemy patrols, but his butchery of the Common Tongue made him a liability when it came to explain what they had to face.

Yet Jonos wasn't blind and coupled with some recognisable words in his scout's report, he could hazard one or two guesses what they were going to find when the word to attack was finally given. Dozens of obstacles in wood, mud and metal had undoubtedly been prepared to prevent heavy and light horse from charging and dispersing the marauders. Palisades and stone redoubts had been raised to provide excellent shooting ranges for archers and crossbowmen. Trebuchets, catapults and ballista were nowhere to be seen for the present, but there had to be some. The heretics had evidently thrown around enough earthworks and new defences to make Sentinel's Stand something to resist an army coming from the south, and if they had the time to build that, then they had the time to build a few engines.

"This is going to be infantry work, Sers," he was forced to admit to the knights surrounding him.

"I'm afraid you're right, my Lord," Ser Irvin answered on his great black stallion. "Our horse is good, but not good enough to charge in... _that_."

That, of course, was the ugly fortifications, walls and pits prepared by the traitors. Once his astonishment was gone, Jonos had to admit it was no Bloody Gate or Golden Tooth and it certainly could be taken, though certainly not cheaply.

"How did they build this so fast?" A knight of House Mallister asked out loud. "They stormed the fortress and unless they used every warrior they have to dig in, they shouldn't have the hands and the backs to repair the fortress, never mind throw more defences!"

"I think the wild rumours the heretics use rat-beasts as a servant work force have some merits, my Lord," Jonos changed his posture on his horse to look at the blue-eyed knight who had spoken. "I'm not saying I believe they have tens of thousands of these abominations, I do not, but if they have three or four thousand and they use a few hundreds of their men as overseers...they had Sentinel's Stand for more than a fortnight in their claws. The Seven only know what sort of horrors and monsters we will find once we will open the dark pits to the torch."

"Plus all the faithful smallfolk they dragged in chains to satisfy their unnatural cravings," half of the assembly shuddered at the thought of being taken prisoner by the heretics. The more they learned about the fall of Sentinel's Stand and the skirmishes and raids over the Northern Marches, the more Jonos and his vanguard realised the 'wild rumours' and the 'unspeakable heresies' were not as ridiculous as they had sounded moons ago when the sun of summer shone over their heads and the era of peace was continuing like it had for the last decade.

The Northerners were really controlling monsters and abominations of the darkest nightmares. If there was any justice in this world, Jonos and his fellow Lords of the Rivers and the Trident would see to it that in a few years they would only be bad memories in a strong and united Westeros.

"We will prepare the camp for today," the Lord of Stone Hedge commanded at last. "There is no point testing these wooden spikes and their monsters with the light cavalry we have."

Maybe if they had three or four thousand infantry...but they didn't have them for now. Jonos Bracken and his vanguard were able to see Sentinel's Stand, but the armies following them were not. Between the Twins and their destination, the only good road was the Kingsroad, and it was far from the artwork of stone and earth mortal hands had built next to the Red Fork or the Trident. The Freys had tightened their purses as long as this old weasel of Walder was alive, and overseeing the roads which were the responsibility of poor or indebted bannersmen was too much to ask for.

Consequently the army of Lord Edmure - now the army of a Lord Paramount, for the raven informing them of the death of Lord Hoster from his long disease had finally reached them - was not progressing fast. The difficulties of supply in a heavily raided region aside, there were only able to put together three large columns of soldiers, and the chariots and the camp followers had to stay on the road, for the food, the water and everything transported in the crates and the barrels was best left undamaged. And the rain had slowed them down further. The solid and hard ground which should have been under their feet was a drenched mud and after several thousands of soldiers walking in them, it was a long muddy trail anyone save the blind could see from leagues away. Horses were tiring faster; the mood of the levies and the inexperienced young knights was getting more violent.

They had to fight a battle soon, or the tempers were only going to get worse.

"How large a camp are we speaking about, my Lord?" asked an arrogant boy from Harrenhal who probably thought the knightly accolade was making him the equal of a Kingsguard.

"I want one able to contain our entire army." Jonos Bracken answered after trying in vain to see if the damn sorcery of the heretics was going to disperse and allow a good view of whatever they were doing to corrupt Sentinel's Stand.

"My Lord, the heretics are not likely to attack us in the open..." the young brown-haired blue-eyed knight of the Riverlands had not laughed, but he was not far from it.

"No, they aren't. But as you can yourself see, we are not going to use Sentinel's Stand as a fortress for this Crusade. Not with the kind of atrocities and unspeakable acts the heretics are committing at this very moment inside it walls." Jonos let them several heartbeats to think about it. "The army coming behind us needs a solid camp before the battle and the next campaign, and we are going to build it."

Thank the Smith and the Crone it was the camp followers, the smallfolk and the levies which were going to use their hands to raise the palisades and the ditches. The young knights looked already furious they needed something as mundane as a camp before going to war.

"I see your point, my Lord, but surely while the smallfolk build the camp, we will be able to lead several patrols eastwards to see if it's possible to encircle these Northern beasts..."

Jonos blinked and thought for a moment he had misunderstood the gist of the knight's message. But no, the knight of House Shawney was looking at him with a bright smile.

"By all means," Lord Jonos Bracken returned with an expression that anyone having something between his ears should have understood as 'you are an idiot, now stop and shut your mouth'.

"Thank you my Lord! Philip and Jae, with me!" And half a score of young knights rode away like they were the Warrior's Sons reincarnated on their way to slay some mythical beasts.

"My Lord, they are..."

"I know, I know." Sentinel's Stand couldn't be flanked. Half of its walls and defences were facing the Neck, and not knowing how many bog-devils, monsters and beast-warriors were hiding behind these putrid wastes, Janos wasn't going to patrol in these treacherous swamps with a mere thousand men, especially when the majority was cavalry.

But if these...these knights who had never known autumn or winter before today wanted to die before the greatest battle of the decade, Jonos wasn't going to stop them, not unless they were men of Stone Hedge. Obviously, more losses in the other Houses' ranks were going to increase his prestige when the moment came to divide the spoils...

"What now, my Lord?"

"Now we turn back, Sers. We have a camp to build and more preparations to finish before Lord Edmure arrives."

* * *

 **Lord Edmure Tully 2**

Edmure gave a last glance at the raven when the maester put the black bird in the cage before leaving his tent. He had never liked ravens before, with their croaking and the manner they looked at humans. He liked them even less now that six days ago, he had received the news of his father's death from them.

He hated the ravens now. But compared to the loathing he felt for the heretics, his anger for the black birds was a small thing. It was the fault of these monsters and demons his eldest sister was a prisoner at Winterfell...if of course she still was alive in the middle of these corruption-filled cold pits.

It was the fault of these demon-worshippers he was here, in the Northern Marches and in his tent as the autumn rains poured over the camps. He should have been by his father's side. He wanted to hear his father's last words, see him smile a last time and benefit from his guidance before he took the Lordship of Riverrun.

It wasn't going to happen. In fact it was all likely he wasn't even going to be there to set aflame the funeral boat of his father as it descended a last time the Red Fork. Not unless he wanted to abandon the army here and there, and as Heir of Riverrun he couldn't do that.

Damn it. The casualties were supposed to be on the battlefield. They were supposed to happen with sword and axe blows, now that the first great battle of the Crusade was going to be fought at Sentinel's Stand. By the Seven, it was hard to tolerate in his head and his heart. Why couldn't his father have been granted half a decade of life in return for his lengthy service to the Riverlands when an old sack of bones like Walder Frey was still alive?

The messages were coming with dark wings and dark rains now. While the Vale, Crown and Storm armies were assembling on the Kingsroad behind them, Edmure was still waiting for the first message announcing him the first Lannister army was camping leagues east of the Riverrun's walls. Lord Tywin Lannister may be a lion, but he was certainly not an early riser.

"We must attack," the judgement had come from Septon Crusader Meryl, one of the two army commanders to honour his tent of his presence.

"We must attack...as soon as this damn rain ends," Ser Stevron Frey corrected. With his old visage and his distinguished tone, Edmure was once more cursing the fact it was Lord Walder ruling the Twins and not his eldest son.

"Yes, yes," Meryl dismissed Stevron like one spoke to a small child. The Faith had not been happy to learn House Frey had refused to reinforce House Sentinel before the first heretic army broke out of the Neck. There had been plenty of fistfights, insults and lost teeth in the improvised duels between the tents of the two armies, and in the end in the final camp Edmure and his main bannersmen present had to put the Freys on the left wing and the Faithful on the right. "We will wait to fight until we can see we are marching in the direction we want. What I want to know, Lord Tully is the shape of the formations we will take once it's time to sound the horns and slaughter the traitors."

The tone was not the one filled of respect a Lord Paramount was supposed to hear when confronted by a smallfolk, but Edmure let it go. The position of the Faith was today unassailable and bashing heads with the handpicked representative of the High Septon was unlikely to be appreciated by King Rhaegar once the hosts of the Seven Kingdoms coalesced in a grand army.

"The formations have been decided," Edmure answered, placing the parchment which had taken hours of his attention in the last days. "Obviously, we can't use our cavalry unless the Northern heretics leave their fortress to fight us on open ground. I thus have decided several rectangular interlocked formations like the treaties of King Maekar advocate in these conditions. The first line will be our heavy infantry with shields, and Houses Frey, Pemford, Keath, Bracken, Shawney, and Blackwood will be disposed from left to right, with the Faithful supporting the Blackwoods on the extreme right."

The grin of the Septon-Crusader told the new Lord of Riverrun his strategy would meet no opposition there. House Blackwood was going to prove its loyalty to the Iron Throne and the Crusade...or the Faithful would teach them the meaning of the word before removing their heads.

"The second line will be the siege engines, the ladders and the archers, with one thousand light cavalry protecting them against any enemy sally. The third line will be seven other infantry contingents, those of House Charlton, Vance, Piper, Tully, Whent, Ryger and the rest of the Faithful foot. The fourth line will be the levies of the other Noble Houses and our heavy horse. The fifth line will be the men-at-arms of our Knightly Houses, our skirmishers, sellswords, and freeriders."

"I commend your battle-plan," Stevron took great care to articulate slowly every word, "but my Lord...isn't the cavalry a bit too far from the action? There are several of my youngest brothers wondering what sort of war this is, when the knights are on the rear lines..."

"I recognise this is not the formation the pious call with their prayers," Edmure replied patiently. "But if I send our mounted troops against these traps and the walls, at best they're going to be useless, at worse their horses are going to panic and trample the foot and our formations will fight without caring for the rest of the armies in the chaos of battle. We have to maintain several lines until a large breach is opened in the enemy's defences."

"Your knights always can the foot and fight without their coursers, Ser Stevron," Meryl proposed while caressing his beard in a voice that fooled no one in the tent. "There is only the mud and the grass to fear...these proud knights have large shields my warriors would use with great devotion."

"Enough," Edmure Tully intervened before Stevron tried to unsheathe his sword from his scabbard. "The knights will do their duty, and many have already volunteered to be the first men atop the walls. They will not mount stallions on the palisades and in the ditches our enemies have dug, but their charge will nonetheless give us the victory we want."

"Agreed," the Heir of the Twins whispered after giving a dark look to the Septon-Crusader. "If everything goes well, the fourteen thousand men of our first line will overwhelm the outer defences in short order. Even if the first attack is repelled however, the third and fourth lines can continue the effort and when it comes down to it, the heretics will soon exhaust themselves against our fresh troops. We can give a few hours to our horse and foot before sending them again into the fray; they can't. The simple reality of battle, whether it is a siege or not, is that the first side which breaks lose the battle. And we have a lot of men and weapons to do the breaking, my Lord."

"It's indeed why I have chosen this formation, Ser Stevron," Edmure thanked him with a silent nod, "we will be able to give more troops the chance to gain battle-experience and redden their blades in monster's blood..."

It was the moment a war horn sounded in the distance.

"I think it's one of these bloody Erenford knights, my Lord," Stevron commented with a wince. "I will duly chastise him when I go back to my camp. I've no doubt the man has drunk a bottle or two while I had my back turned..."

Like to mock the Frey's affirmation, a second horn echoed in the camp. And then a third. A fourth. A fifth. A sixth. In a score of heartbeats, horns were playing and thousands of voices outside began to shout orders and urge the soldiers to leave their tents and confront the cold rain.

"This is not possible..."

The heretics were not waiting in their fortress. They were attacking the Riverlander camp.

* * *

 **Jory Cassel 3**

There was a name the Andals feared, whether they live in a tiny hamlet or behind the ten feet-high walls of one of their great citadels. This name was King Theon the Hungry Wolf, Champion of the True Gods. In him the power of the Four had been poured until he was a being of perfection. By his sword and his armies, the lands of Andalos had burned and its inhabitants were massacred, sold to slavers or seized to be offered on the Northern altars. By his voice the disunity of the North had been stopped, and the Champions of the Hosts were once again turned to a single goal: kill the unbelievers and cover the lands in so many Southern corpses even the septons had no choice but to admit defeat and return to their sunny cities where they could find excuses for their great failures.

Jory didn't intend to make a pact with this most redoubtable Ascended Champion tonight.

While it would be incredibly satisfying to let the worst nightmare of the Andals walk the earth and slaughter the worshippers of the High Septon, the army under his command had not enough sacrifices available to make it worthwhile. And besides, the experience would be likely a final one for him personally. The Arch-Ascended was a formidable force on the battlefield, but one which tolerated no other peer save the Lord of Winterfell or his Heir.

No, on this rainy night another Ascended had been chosen to lead the attack. Another great King of Winter, though the Southerners remembered only his names in japes and mockeries, ignorant that they were.

The Ascended called as ninety-nine prisoners were killed on the drenched eight-pointed star was King Brandon the Burner. Considered one of the more powerful sorcerers of Tzeentch to have ever lived, the Champion had been on the defensive for most of his reign, as enemies encircled his lands. Finally, losing his patience, King Brandon had used his own fleet as bait and in a feat worthy of the Great Architect, burned the two fleets while there were fighting each other. For several decades there had been no western fleet worth of the name, but then the Ironborn reavings had ceased immediately. And the Burner had become one of Tzeentch's Chosen on the battle-sized pyre he had created with his magic and his tormented mind.

"Is everything ready?"

"The men await your orders, Black Spear," Lord Robin Flint answered. "The first patrols have been eliminated. They are few Southerners outside, in this light rain."

Jory grinned before drawing his sword and raising it well over his head. It was not really necessary – a good half of his troops had natural night vision – but for the first battle, better to do it properly.

"For the True Gods, we attack!"

The ritual ended as the black columns of the Northern army marched out of Sentinel's Stand. For an instant there was nothing but obscurity, rain, the growls of the skavens and the beasts they had used to build the walls. And then the Ascended was here. Jory was too far to see all the details, but from here the immortal servant of Tzeentch looked like a humanoid grey-black figure burning in mystical blue fire.

They raced ahead, in the mud and the rain. Orders had been given to forget the war cry and the intimidation shouts, but even then, the Hosts were doing a prodigious amount of noise and rapidly as they approached the first fires burning on the side of the plains, the first calls of alert were heard.

"They know we are here but it will not save them! ATTACK! FOR KHORNE AND TZEENTCH! FOR NURGLE AND SLAANESH! ATTACK!"

The Host of Slaughter, Jonelle Cerwyn in the lead, were the first to reach the Riverlander camp. Over one hundred soldiers in chainmail and swords tried to intercept them. As the Champions of Khorne leading the attack were in plate and had two-handed warhammers, halberd and axes, the fight was more butchery than a proper contest of strength.

"PUSH THEM INTO THEIR CAMP! KILL THE UNBELIEVERS! KILL THE WEAKLINGS! KILL THE SEPTONS!"

The cohort of Bog Boggs certainly fulfilled the spirit of the commands. The scythe-wielding men of the Neck cut down scores and scores of men who rushed from their tents with sometimes only half of their armour parts worn.

The Host of Domination and the Host of Destiny followed the Host of Disease into the breach, pulverising more palisades and gates to add more avenues of attack. There were screams of defiance on the other side, but this was the moment the Ascended Burner soared over the battlefield and over a hundred tents began to burn in blue fire.

And then they were all fighting in the River camp. Despite having had a taste of it at Sentinel's Stand, Jory marvelled at the facility his enemies fell under his blows. His sword and his spear were red with blood in ten heartbeats, and wherever he gave a blow, one terrified face screamed and fell without a limb. It was not like in the lands of fortitude and danger where every step could be your last. It was easy and these men were weak...so weak, they were incapable of uniting despite their great numbers. In the first instants they were charging between the tents, they had easily killed as many men as his army had before beginning the long march southwards.

"Return to the darkness, servants of the demons!"

"The Seven Kingdoms and the Faith!"

"The Seven will it!"

"For King Rhaegar and the Crusade!"

But they were still more Riverlanders and other Southerners pouring it. They were poorly organised, and Jory was massacring them by the scores, parrying their weak attacks, shattering their weapons, forcing to their knees unworthy champions. But they were a lot of them.

"Lord Flint," he was forced to call. "I need more pyres in the tents and to our east. The Ascended and your sorcerers aren't killing enough enemies to make them rout."

"Understood...they are going to feel our wrath..." the hundreds of blue lights which materialised and provoked thousands of screams were more than he expected to say the truth.

The effect didn't last more than ten heartbeats before it was extinguished by a wind which was not coming from the Riverlands sky.

"They have their own wizards take the field, Cassel," Jonelle Cerwyn barked as their advance forced his own Winterfell warriors and the berserkers of the Slaughter together. "We will not be able to hold them eternally."

Jory did not say anything. The Khorne Lady was indeed right. Not only there were thousands of light now illuminating the camp where by all right sorcery and madness should be reigning, but even the rain was temporarily decreasing in intensity. And despite their horrible speed, there were thousands of men now fully armed and awake running in their direction. Thousands of reinforcements and the winds of magic were lessening once more, the increase in potency granted by the sacrifices coming to an end. The Ascended and the blue flames were fading away, and more and more magic was returning to the aether.

"We can withdraw," Jory Cassel shouted. "Sorcerers, I want a fire barrage to cover our departure! Domination Host, take all the living prisoners you can! Boggs, unleash your plagues! Cerwyn, take the livestock and the metal we can move!"

Orders after orders were uttered, and thankfully the Champions of the Hosts obeyed and most of the troops immediately began to withdraw from the burning Tully camp. Thank Tzeentch he had insisted on the possibility of retreating the night before. While he would have loved crushing the enemies on these plains in a single surprise attack, the very size of the enemy army had made this something incredibly difficult to achieve.

No, he had been right to retreat. They had burned and killed thousands of Riverlanders and their allies for insignificant losses, and showed the meek commanders serving Riverrun and King's Landing the power of the True Gods was against them. Many would desert before dawn, and even more would die of their wounds or doubt this war could be won at all.

"It was a splendid night raid, now we must give the killing blow to their Lords..." He announced to his escort.

* * *

 **Ser Stevron Frey 1**

"I'm sorry, Lord Blanetree. We lost how many men?"

Stevron was old enough he had heard nearly every Lord of the Rivers and the Trident speak in past decades, and enough times he could guess what emotion was taking control of their heads when they opened their mouths. The former Lord of Riverrun, Lord Hoster, loved to take an emotionless voice harder than granite when he was displeased by an unwelcome missive or new tax imposed on the Riverlands. His son's voice, alas, was far less dignified and clearly more panicky.

"My Lord, I realise this is bad..."

"We lost one men in six of this entire army!" Edmure Tully shouted.

Stevron winced as the noise only worsened his headache. The night had been atrocious, and he had not closed his eyes for a long turn of hourglass. At his age, the effect on his old bones was exhausting. Plenty of grey beards like him were even more tired.

Personally, Stevron thought the new Lord Tully was too pessimistic. The sun had not completely risen over the camp, and already it was evident most of the casualties were due to the huge rout which had seized the entire camp when sorcery had burned hundreds of tents. The demons from the Seven Hells which had breached the palisades had killed plenty of camp followers and foot soldiers like they were nothing but ants, but they were not many of them and he didn't think more than a couple of thousand had fallen in battle.

No, forced out of their sleep to battle a terrifying foe, a lot of men had panicked. Stevron knew that over one in three of his men, including half a score of his half-brothers, had run away instead of charging the enemy. These men were now returning to the camp as the sun gave them some of their warmth and resolve back.

Still, there was no way to pretend they had not suffered a humiliating defeat. More than five thousand men dead, quantities of supplies destroyed or which had to be burned lest their corruption infected the survivors, and the heretics had not been repelled; they had just returned to their camp when it became obvious they would not manage to completely destroy the Crusaders before their army surrounded and massacred them.

"My Lord," Lord Shawney interjected with the voice of a man who knew his arguments were not to be enjoyed by his liege. "While our losses were important, this night raid caused far more damage to our tents and our supplies than to our numbers. Successful or not, the heretics will need three or four more raids like this one to break on the field of battle the army. But if they torch and taint our camp once more, we will be forced to retreat. It is not raining this morning, but we are seeing more and more autumn rains...we can't count on the sky to spare our camp for the next fortnight. Our men need proper tents to sleep at night, and the Twins are quite a few leagues away..."

"Our smiths, our workers...all our servants will repair the camp while we're fighting." At first, Stevron thought this had been a poor trait of humour, but there was no smile on the new Lord of Riverrun's visage. Seven Above, Edmure Tully was serious. "Our watchers and our patrols were massacred, last night. I will not give them the opportunity to try a second raid."

"My Lord, eight out of ten men have not slept last night!" Lord Blackwood protested! "They worked until dawn to repair and salvage whatever could be saved after the enemy retreated. Give them past noon to rest..."

"The enemy did not rest either, Lord Tytos," their liege retorted with his fist striking the wooden table of the war council. "We are tired, they are tired, but they are not that many of them in the first place. We have reserves, they have none. The moment they will break, Sentinel's Stand will be back in our hands."

"Yes!" the Septon-Crusader confirmed enthusiastically. "They failed to crush us last night. The heretics tried their last desperate gamble to win the battle when the gaze of their demonic masters was upon them and they failed. We have nothing to fear as long as the sun is high in the sky."

Shawney and several older Lords looked at him persistently, maybe urging him to speak, to discourage the Lord of Riverrun from this folly. Stevron didn't open his mouth. He had recognised the light in the eyes of Edmure Tully, it was one of pure stubbornness like the one his Lord Father threw when he wanted a new girl in his bed. With the Septon-Crusader's support, his voice was neither important nor wanted.

"I want every warrior, knight, archer and sellsword who can hold a sword or a spear to prepare for battle. I want the army to be able to march for battle before the sun is at its zenith."

* * *

 **Lord Jonos Bracken 2**

"This is taking too long."

Jonos was glad he was nearly two scores of feet away from Lord Edmure Tully at this moment, because he couldn't help but sigh and roll his eyes, and he had not his helmet upon his head to hide his exasperation.

Yes, it was taking a long time. The 'it' was the march and the battle-formation of the great army of the Riverlands, in case one was sleeping on his horse. Which, unfortunately, seemed to be a lot of knights. The night had been long, and only the dead had been able to enjoy a nice rest.

"The Blackwoods are lagging behind the Shawney. Tell them to march faster." From his position on the hill, the Blackwoods seemed to advance at the same speed the Shawney heavy shields did, but he was not going to intervene to defend the honour of these half-heretic bastards. Lord Tytos deserved every reprimand he was going to receive today. The man had heretic's blood in his veins, and threading around the path of treason had always been something the Blackwoods loved to do.

Today it ended. They were going to prove their loyalty, swords in arms.

"This is taking too long!"

Jonos wondered how many times Lord Hoster must have explained his son that moving thousands of men to a battlefield took a lot of time. Obviously, it had not been enough or the son had glossed over this aspect of warfare now that his father was not here anymore to watch over him.

Trying to convince himself impatience was a good trait to have in an army commander, the Lord of Stone Hedge watched as banners after banners flew in the wings and the long squares of infantry advanced on the plain to challenge the Northern monsters.

It was a sea of steel and banners. It was a great host worthy of a Crusade. The night raid had killed many, but they were still well over fifty thousand warriors from every Lordship in the Riverlands gathered here today to fight evil and sent it screaming with their backsides in fire to the Seven Hells.

Seven great blocks were in the lead, six for the Great Houses and one for the Faith. His own men, as befitted his rank, were going to be among the first to spill traitor's blood.

"Our archers are too far from the foot. Tell them to advance further," the Lord of Riverrun ordered.

"But my Lord," Lord Keath remarked, "if they advance further, they will not be able to retreat behind our light horse if they take heavy casualties."

"There are no signs of trebuchets or catapults, Lord Keath," their liege replied with a sign of annoyance. "It will be a duel of archers against archers, and I have no doubt the bows of our households will be able to outrange whatever rat-thing the heretics have gathered to shoot their arrows for them."

Edmure chuckled, quickly followed by the Piper, Vance and Ryger boys...and then the fumes which had covered so much of Sentinel's Stand vanished.

Before anyone around the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands had the time to send a rider to his troops, hundreds of arrows were flying towards the ranks of the Crusaders. But it was nothing compared to the noise which came five heartbeats later. Long metallic tubes had been placed on the new palisades, and in thunderous shrieks they fired.

The entire line of fortifications didn't shoot. It was all he had the opportunity to observe before incendiary projectiles, arrow and sorcery of damnation slammed into the loyal men of the Riverlands.

Jonos had thought it was going to be bloody. He was wrong. The incendiary balls these metal tubes had launched destroyed and killed in neat lines, deadly things which made the rocks of trebuchets look like toys of children. Legs and corpses were still standing ten feet before them, the bodies of the dead not yet realising their lives had just ended. Flames spread through the ranks. The ranks of House Pemford took the greater amount of casualties, and their advance stopped, as knights and captains tried to reorganise. But it was taking too long.

"What are they doing? They must continue the attack or our entire left wing is going to attack at different times...Lord Pemford! Go rally your men and take two thousand spearmen from the reserve!"

This was stupid, but Jonos Bracken had not the intention to criticise his army commander. The more men they sent directly, the more...

The cannons fired again, and this time it was the infantry of House Shawney which suffered the most. Once again, Lord Edmure ordered more men to rebuild the squares of swords, axes and spears...just before the men of House Charlton ran into some green poisonous mist.

"We are losing daylight!" Edmure Tully vociferated, glancing at his Myrish spyglass before shouting more commands, some of which were the complete opposite he had voiced moments before.

They were also losing a lot of foot from the reserve, Jonos could not help but notice. As the ground was treacherous for the horses and their cavaliers, it was the role of dismounted knights and common warriors to break through the defences and each of these atrocious metallic things were ravaging the tightened formations of spearmen and swordsmen.

" **BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD**!"

The heretic artillery, the sorcerers and the archers all shot their bolt at once. For an instant, the Lords of the Riverlands saw unnatural things of fire and smoke curling over the fortress...and then everything blew apart. The first lines were ravaged by evil flames. The second lines crumbled. The third lines shattered or died as projectiles cut their bodies in half or decapitated them. For the blink of an eye, there was only folly and madness...and then the men began to break and run.

Jonos and most of the Lords present on the hill stared with their mouths wide open. They had just nearly reached the base of the enemy pits and palisades, and their men were already flinching? It was a bad dream...

The Charlton and the Frey troops behind them were the first to throw down their weapons and run, and suddenly their willingness to flee was revealed as sinister figures appeared from the mud and the grass and began to massacre the men trying to stand the line with massive scythes.

"They are sallying?"

"They are sallying out of the fortress!"

"The heretics are charging our foot!"

Jonos didn't wait to see what stratagem the other Lords had decided upon. He donned his helmet and rushed in the direction of the camp, to lead his horse in the melee. They should have placed more cavalry on the second line to protect the trebuchets, he realised.

"My Lord..." a knight in Piper colours screamed. "Betrayal! The Blackwoods have betrayed us!"

"What? Where?" When he had observed the battlefield, the Blackwoods had been obeying faithfully their orders. "These dogs..."

But the Piper knight instead tried to stab him and only a desperate charge from one of his own men saved his life. The head of the traitor soon rolled on the ground and a column of smoke came out of his armour.

"Sorcery..." Ser Irvin seethed.

"Sorcery," Jonos agreed. "We need to send more men against the heretics. If they heavy cavalry charges, our infantry will be between us and them..."

It was going to be a slaughter. They had heavy infantry in the lead, but those men were surprised and weakened by the enemy unnatural siege engines.

"My Lord, I think it is raining blood..."

Jonos fixed incredulously his steel gauntlet, which should have stayed a pure grey, receive the first drops of blood.

The sky began to redden. The crows arrived on the battlefield, croaking and mocking the humans.

And the demons returned.

At first, it was like a stone had been thrown into a river or a large pool. The air shivered and cracked. The plains grew distorted and bloody. The horses suddenly refused to heed the orders of their masters. Wolves howled from nowhere and everywhere.

A pestilential odour attacked his nose and the grass for a moment lost its green colour to become half-pink half-red.

"What is happening?" He muttered in consternation. "What is happening?"

He was about to order to sound the charge when he saw them. Thousands of men, thousands of Riverlanders and Faithful, their visages grimacing in sheer terror, running away from the battlefield.

"CHARGE! CHARGE FOR KING RHAEGAR AND THE CRUSADE!"

The order was three score of feet on the left and Jonos didn't know which group of knights had given the order. He just knew it was the wrong one. Thousands and thousands swordsmen and archers were trying to get away from the battlefield, and they couldn't evade the three hundred or four hundred horse which charged directly at them.

"My Lord! We must go!"

Jonos shook himself. The panic, the butchery, the troops breaking...it wasn't natural. But as he watched the bloody melee engulfing right, left and centre of the army, he knew they weren't going to rally the men like last night.

"You are right. You are right. We must save what we can and make a fighting retreat to the Twins."

"It's a bit too late for that, Bracken."

A black figure on a black horse waited eastwards, followed by a large column of cavalry, all clad in plate.

But their armours were not the work of the smiths of the loyal Lords, oh no. The steel and the other metals were embedded with old runes of evil and corruption, shining in a malevolent blue flame.

"Tytos Blackwood, treacherous son of a pox-ridden whore! I knew we couldn't trust you! How much did the Starks gave you for your betrayal?"

"Betrayal?" The amusement was evident in the voice of the Lord of Raventree Hall. "My poor Jonos, I was never on your side. My service and my life have always been tied to those of the Great Wolf and our Lord Tzeentch. To betray you would imply we chose to honour our oaths at some point of our service..."

"You swore yourselves to the Iron Throne!" Jonos Bracken roared.

"Oh yes, a Lord Blackwood three hundred years ago may have uttered some words," Tytos Blackwood raised his sword in a mocking salute. "And as long as the Conqueror and his blood were strong, we were willing to obey their commands. But they have grown weak. They lost their dragons, their pride and everything important save their reptilian lives. It's time for a Champion of the Gods to rise and conquer these lands!"

"Better to die than serve the monster you call Master," he spat as his men raised the horse banners of his household in defiance.

"We will see if your daughters sing like you," the black sword of the traitor began to burn in a malicious blue flame like the one which had burned so many men and tents last night. "Now, try to make things a bit interesting, Bracken. You are the last Lord of your House..."

"We will burn Raventree Hall to the ground and purify the earth on hundreds of leagues!" Jonos spurred his horse and charged, his favourite lance pointed at the heart of the traitor. "KING RHAEGAR AND THE SEVEN!"

"Tzeentch does not care about honour." A blue orb of sorcery struck him directly into the chest and Jonos Bracken screamed in pain and the laughter of the demons echoed in his ears.

* * *

 **Ser Stevron Frey 2**

When half of his foot supposed to protect the entire army's left flank began to run, Stevron thought he had seen the worst in his life.

He was wrong.

The worst had come half a rout later when his own grandson, Black Walder had tried to plunge his sword in his throat as they entered the camp. Only the vigilance of his sworn swords had saved his life, and still Black Walder had managed to kill two of them.

"Why?" He had thought he would see some repentance, some regret. But there was nothing good in these dark eyes.

"Why, grandfather? I am not you! I want to be the Lord of the Twins before my ninetieth name day!" Maybe Walder would have said more insults after that, but the sword pressed again his throat discouraged him.

"This is no laughing matter! How many were supposed to die for you sick ambition? The Lord of our House? Your father? Your brother? Your niece?"

Stevron had uttered the name in this order to obtain a reaction, but all he received in return was some narrowing of the eyes and a predatory expression for a heartbeat or two. It was far enough to make him shiver in fear.

His grandson had betrayed them, completely and utterly, and had been ready to kill everyone and everything coming between him and the Lordship. Father and Mother, how could he have failed his family that badly?

"I will make sure your name will be known for the traitor you are, grandson. Yours is my greatest shame..."

"No!" Walder barked. "The shame is what your vaunted father has done to our House! Did you know how easy it was to recruit cultists and assassins on our lands? Everyone hates Lord Walder Frey! They hate our House! As long as I disguised myself and shouted 'death to the Freys!' the smallfolk were happy to embrace Chaos and demonic worshipping."

"And so you betrayed us for something that was never yours to obtain in the first place."

"I betrayed for far more," the vicious expression was back, "there are pleasures and desires that must be explored, powers that you and your mediocre family have wilfully blinded themselves to..."

Stevron nodded once. The sword decapitated his grandson the instant after.

"Aenys, you have the greatest number of riders left. Send three of your best horsemen home immediately. We need to warn our liege about my grandson's treachery. Hosteen, take whatever tents and supplies you can save and form the column."

"Lord, there are still hundreds of our men on the field! And this camp is fortified!"

Stevron gave a glance to the north. The sky had turned a heretical blue-red and hundreds of unnatural fires were burning. The screams of agony were heard in the wind, in spite of his efforts to ignore them.

Looking around him, yes it was tempting to believe the camp would hold against a new assault. But as hundreds of men looted the camp and fled southwards, Stevron acknowledged the Riverlands army was in no state to fight again. Many soldiers were shaking of panic and exhaustion, and fleeing was all they were good for now, having thrown on the ground weapons and armour to run faster.

"The fortifications will not help much against demons. You!" He ordered a Captain with the familiar trout on his great shield. "Go find Lord Tully, and tell him I am trying to rally the left and the centre to the Twins."

The man nodded...and when he thought the Heir of the Twins was not looking, abandoned his shield and joined a hundred-plus group of deserters pillaging the rest of a chariot transporting the army supplies.

"The Tullys are giving us the example, I see..." Jammos commented with a sneer.

"Our men ran before clashing with the enemy, Jammos," Stevron reminded him soberly. "Take your men and all the supplies we can save before the heretics arrive and murder us all. It's time to go back home."

Assuming, of course, that the treachery of his grandson hadn't already cost them everything...

* * *

 **Author's Note** : the northerners are going to be really disappointed by this battle...with how fast the Riverlanders are running, there are not going to be able to kill more than a few thousands on the battlefield.

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The next story which will be updated will be The Dance is not Over.


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